


It Was You

by dmdiane



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beginnings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Foster Care, Past, Romance, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Callen picks up the photo. Of him from way back in foster care. “Where’d you…” And a kid. The little girl from his last foster placement. His eyes flicker between the picture and Nell again. Nell. “It was you.”</p><p>***COMPLETE***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

“Hey, Nell?”

“Mmmm?”

“Do something with this?”

Nell Jones, towel in hand, leans backwards from the bathroom sink to look out the door at Matt Lincoln, her roommate and sometimes boyfriend. His foot rests on a large box at the foot of their bed, an inquisitive expression on his handsome face, dark brown eyes mildly interested and mildly irritated. She flashes a grin. “This afternoon. For sure.”

Matt holds her gaze long enough to make the point of his doubt. This isn’t the first time she’s said she’d move the box. 

“I will. Really.” She hopes she can. He doesn’t understand. Artist, only child, and sometime teacher, he still has two living parents. Where would he begin? She finishes drying her face, brushes her hair. She leans on the doorjamb and stares at the box without seeing it.

The box arrived two weeks ago from her foster mother, triggering a cascade of bad memories. Nell ran away from care at 14. Though she kept in sporadic touch with the woman who raised her, there was so much about the ten years in foster care she hated. In fairness, the things she hated were mostly to do with her family of origin and ten long years of forced visitation with the mother who never terminated parental rights. In prisons, halfway houses, a few treatment centers and at her grandmother’s house. Every visit was a chaotic constant scary reminder Nell was a possession, not a loved one.

She’d also hated several of her fellow foster care inmates who’d come to their home with all manner of violence and vitriol spilling from their every pore and found Nell a convenient target. Foster pet, kiss ass, shelter puppy, a few of the nicer names she’d been called. Nell was always small, sometimes scrawny. She consistently looks several years younger than reality. Very little about her appearance is accurate to who she is. She’s petite and pretty, also brilliant and occasionally mean. She’s poised and precise, yet she fights and improvises like lightning. Years of being picked on, followed by a couple years being homeless, taught her lots of odds and ends about getting by. She can be a consummate liar and thief who often hides in plain sight.

Matt knows her history. He’s as empathetic as anyone could be, she supposes. What he can’t know is how this unopened box kicks up musty feelings decaying at the bottom of her spirit like dead leaves. Every time she’s almost got acceptance in her grasp something happens to knock it loose. Who knows what will rear its ugly head when she opens the damn box. She doesn’t remember leaving anything behind she wanted. With the box was a note from her foster mother. Nell knows Cheryl is sick, has said she’d visit, hasn’t gone. The note is sweet. Cheryl is moving to hospice care now, she sent Nell things she found around the house belonging to Nell. Nell’s been more agitated about going to see Cheryl than opening the box.

Nell and Matt are both compulsively neat. An unopened packing box at the foot of the bed is a significant outlier. Nell sighs, throws caution to the wind, strides across the room and picks up her pocketknife.

The items in the box are all neatly wrapped in newsprint. Nell grins. Of course Cheryl still gets the daily Star Tribune. As she suspected, she’s unsettled. Everything neatly organized, packed and protected; soccer trophy, empty perfume diffuser bottles, a cat clock. Prods of recall; people pleaser, collector, eccentric. Nell works hard keeping remnants of a profoundly lonely childhood tucked far from her day to day thoughts. Yet, here they are, poking up from the past. The gem colored perfume diffusers are pretty, Nell smiles. She’s always loved the colored glass, whimsical shapes, the mesh atomizers with beads and tassels. She sits the tiny bottles on her dresser in a long line, smile widening to a grin.

She reckons to be halfway done with the excavation when she reaches an accordion folder, thick with paper. Cheryl was foster mom to more kids than Nell remembers. No way she kept all this nonsense for everyone. Sure enough, here are school papers, achievement certificates, report cards, class pictures. She peers at images of little folk – she being the smallest – everyone awkward looking, rumpled, obedient. A smaller envelope of snapshots shows a variety of tiny Nell, pigtails sticking out like antennae.

She doesn’t know these pictures. Where did they come from? Cheryl, then a young woman, on a swing set with Nell in a playground. An infant with Nell’s mother, Nell’s eyes flicker past her mother’s face, she wonders if the baby is her or her little brother. A snick of longing to know where he is flits across her shoulders. There are good reasons she left this stuff when she ran.

In a faded creased photo, toddler Nell and a teenaged boy huddle together in a recliner with a book. Instant full body recall, long hours curled in his arms when she first got to the foster home, him reading to her. With the sensation come memories of a cup of milk in the middle of the night, a hand on her back, ‘you’re okay _devotchka moya_.’ In that instant she recognizes the boy was Callen.

Her insides go cold. How? Her thoughts stutter. What she recalls clearly is Cheryl snatching the picture away ‘forget him Nell, he’s gone.’ Nell, nothing if not obedient, forgot. She shoves the picture under the mattress. Stupid four-year-old thing to do. She can’t make herself retrieve it. The contents of the box are suddenly and utterly worse than her worst imaginings. She sweeps the perfume bottles back in without ceremony, tosses the stack of paper on them and closes the box.

“Nell?” Matt calls from the other room. “You okay?” He arrives in the doorway, brows up.

“Absolutely fine.” She answers brightly. “Sorry, just trash. Bunch of glass bottles. Noisy.” She hops up, brushing imaginary dust from her pants. “This can go to Goodwill.” She closes the flaps of cardboard decisively, offering a smile.

“Need a hand?”

“No, thanks.”

Instead, Nell drives three apartment complexes down the street and tips the box into an incinerator.

~

In the wake of finding Callen in her past, Nell’s memory regurgitates all kinds of information she’d rather have left undisturbed. Her equilibrium tilts. The ancient hurt sears up through her at the least provocation. She feels disconnected from everyone and everything. She goes through all the motions of living with Matt. He suspects something’s up, but hasn’t asked. It was a mistake to move in with him six months ago. Accustomed as he is to the secrecy surrounding her jobs, past and present, he accommodates her increased reserve. He probably appreciates it in some ways. They’ve been drifting apart since she arrived.

Nell and Matt are friends, have been since they met. He’s smart and funny, really cute in a lean sort of way. His work illustrating comics is brilliant, witty, literate and tragic, remarkably steady for an artist. It’s easy enough to be with him because he doesn’t actually care what she does. They like the same people, events, food. She has no family, no past, no career she can discuss with him. They’ve tried to have a romance. They make sense together on paper. Not so much in person. She’s always planning on either working it out or moving on. But, his aloofness is a good match for the realities of her life, if not for her temperament. That she can’t disclose much to him for one reason or another means he doesn’t have to defend himself against her or commit.

Work gets increasingly difficult. She avoids Callen. Thinking of him sends shivers down her spine, not to mention hearing his voice, seeing him. He’d been the first person who ever took care of her who didn’t have to or get paid. Now she knows it was him, she can’t see how she missed those eyes. She’d kept the picture under her pillow until Cheryl took it away. Hoped he’d come back. He didn’t. She talked to Nate last week and when he recovered from the surprise, he said she has to tell Callen. Or at least tell Hetty. Nell doesn’t want to talk to any of them. She tightens her focus on work, increases her hours, wonders how to put the past back where it came from.

~o~

This evening she reckons if she doesn’t get the picture out from under the mattress, she’ll have to start sleeping on the couch. Like the princess and the pea, she lies in bed thinking she can feel the contours of the pictures edges all night. Tonight’s the night. Matt, at the art opening of a friend, won’t be home until the wee hours. She needs to tell Callen and she needs to get rid of the damn picture. So be it. Perhaps she can do both at once. Standing in the kitchen she extracts her phone and makes the call.

Nell’s name on his caller ID gives Callen pause. She hasn’t called him outside of work in two years. “Nell?” It can’t be work. He’s in the OSP gym and the building is quiet as a tomb.

“Hi. I’m sorry to call like this. I, uh, need to see you.”

He doesn’t have an answer. She hasn’t been willing to look at him in three weeks.

“I know.” She says into his silence. “It’s important.”

“Ok. I’m at the gym. Need to shower and change.”

“Starbucks on the corner?” She asks. The coffee shop is a half block from OSP and hosts most of the team’s midday non-work conversation.

“Sure.”Callen looks at the phone, an uneasy discomfort rumbling in his chest. He gets cleaned up and to the corner store in quick time.

Nell waits at a café table outside, dressed down to a white t-shirt and jeans, canvas high tops adorned with red ribbons instead of laces make the outfit singularly Nell. She’s also wearing a straw fedora and glasses. He often doesn’t recognize her out in the real world. The evening light is warm red and orange as the sun sets and she looks especially pretty there, all solemn eyes.

He drops into a chair. “What’s going on?” She puts her hand on the table, pushes a piece of paper, a photograph to him. Callen glances between her, the picture, and back again. The hat brim and sheaves of dark mahogany hair shade part of her face. Her eyes are on the back of her hand. The muscles in his jaw bunch. He picks up the photo. Of him from way back in foster care. “Where’d you…” And a kid. The little girl from his last foster placement. His eyes flicker between the picture and Nell again. Nell. “It was you.”

“And you.” Her gold hazel eyes look right at him for the first time in weeks. The gesture isn’t reassuring. Turbulent emotions simmer behind her eyes, for a long moment he thinks she’s going to cry or hit him, then abruptly she stands and walks off. Callen holds onto the instinct to pursue.

He watches her retreating back while she walks to her car. He can replay the night she arrived at the foster home. A furious mite of kid with such a horrible haircut she looked like moths had been at her. Skinny and dirty, with flashing eyes of maple colored gold. He’d observed idly from his vantage on the sofa while the caseworker walked her in to living room. The kid was clutching, of all things, a coffee can. Of course, the other new arrival chose the exact moment to slide into a tantrum. The foster mom, Cheryl, had her hands full. Nice lady.

G was sixteen and in his 37th placement. He read all the body language and chose to go to where the little one stood stoically clutching the can, staring at the 12 year old screaming on the floor. Let the adults manage the attention seeker. ‘Come on’ he’d swung the kid into his arms, taking her off to the kitchen, washing her face, giving her a cup of milk, reading her one of the younger kid’s books. Once everything was settled she’d been trundled off with Cheryl. The next day she’d crept up with a book in her arms nearly as big as she was asking him to read. Anna Karenina. His first Tolstoy. She can’t have had the slightest idea.

Nell sits, head resting on the steering wheel, not 40 feet away. He goes to the car and leans on the doorframe. He takes a deep breath and opens her door. He rests on his haunches beside her. When she glances at him he sees the fiery maple gold flash he should’ve recognized long ago. He sighs. Had he ever known her name?  He’d simply referred to her with his father’s pet name for his sister. Cheryl called her munchkin. “Come on.” He touches her hand. Those eyes flash at him again. He nods. He takes her hand, tugs her from the car, closes the door. They walk back to the table.

Callen buys two tall cups of tea. They sit outside the shop, not looking at each other. “How long have you had that?” He asks.

“Depends how you count.” She says. “Cheryl sent it a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea that was you. Before. She must’ve forgotten taking it away from me a couple weeks after you left.”

Explains why she’s not looking at him. You left, she said. The words settle against him. His entire life people have left him. He’s never considered anyone he passed during foster care people. He left. Her. “I’m sorry.” He says.

Nell swipes at her face. “Just brings everything back to the surface. Yuck.”

“Doesn’t ever completely go.” He sifts through new realization of what her life’s been. More like his than not, he’d wager. Until this moment he’d had a vision of vanilla Midwestern wholesomeness. There’s always been an interesting wallflower quality to her that doesn’t match her beauty and smarts. It matches fostered perfectly.

“No. I guess not. Nate says I ought to tell you, so…” She shakes her head, tucks hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure about this. Us. You.” She gestures to the picture. “Him.” She closes her eyes for a second then looks at him.

“I didn’t leave you.”

“I know.”

G’s brows rise.

“I know.” She repeats. “But, it felt like… I was four. I know. Now.”

His eyes narrow. Knowing has never been enough for him. He knows his parents didn’t leave him. He was still left.

“You were a kid, too.” She says.

G leans forward. “Nell. Listen. We can make this okay. It’ll… it’ll take some time. But, this will be fine.”

Her mouth tightens, lips pursed. Her mouth curls up at the corner in a half smile. “You’re a bit of a bullshitter, you know.”

He grins. “Yeah, can be.” He allows. “How long were you with Cheryl?”

“Ten years.”

They swap a few stories about Cheryl, school. G tells her about running, jail, meeting Hetty. Nell tells him about running, homeless, Stanford.

“Hang on. You went to high school while you were homeless and then graduated early and went to college?” G’s not surprised, but he’s amused. “Should’ve predicted it, I guess. You got me started on Russian literature. Do you remember?”

"You were nice to me when nobody else had been. I was little. I thought it meant something it doesn't. Didn't. I'm grateful though."

G feels he should've known all of this somehow. He's been carefully avoiding the image on the table between them. Now his eyes stray back, there is, he sees, contentment on the faces that must've been exceedingly rare for both of them.

"I thought you must be dead or in jail. Foster kids have a rough path. We've usually reached our use by date by 35.” She says.

"I've been close on both counts. S’not a bad guess.”

Her eyes come to his. “This is very strange and probably doesn’t mean anything. Getting that was a shock.” She gestures to the picture. “It’s hard suddenly knowing it was you.” She gathers herself to leave. She’s got her empty cup in her hand with a napkin. “I should go. Look, for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re alive and doing well. I guess I’ll see you Monday morning?”

He nods. She stands, drops her trash in the can by the curb, moves to get in her car. When she looks back their eyes catch and hold. A new thread of recognition thickens between them. Nell breaks the gaze, climbs in the car and drives away. G watches the taillights take the corner. He returns his attention to the photograph she’s left on the table with him. Free to examine it at his leisure, he lingers over the details. His recall of the atmosphere in that house is visceral, a weird balance of suspended welcome, with a side of trepidation. Whatever book he’s reading to her, it’s thick and heavy. She can’t have understood much of what she heard. But she knew there was peace in the words, the imaginary worlds.

Three years ago when Marty first joined the team, they’d all put in considerable time socializing. In the mix of drinks, food and hours of conversation, G and Nell gravitated toward one another. It seemed a bad idea to date a coworker, a young one at that. He’d not been in any shape to have anything romantic with anyone anyway. He’d been surprised by the attraction with Nell. He easily put the brakes on, eased back from whatever was coalescing between them. He trails a finger over her face. He wants to replicate the ease in her expression.

He drinks the last of his tea on the way back to OSP. Once home he puts the picture on the mantle beside the only picture he has of his parents together, nestled amongst pictures of Sam’s kids. He looks at it there for a long moment, still adjusting to this shift of Nell from one place in his life to another.

He drifts back to his recliner. His usual evening reading is dogged by thoughts of Nell. He’s been reading at night as long as he can recall. It’s excellent escapism. Though, not tonight. After a half hour of trying he gives up on the book and lapses into sitting and thinking. Looking back, it occurs to him Cheryl must’ve been a retired social worker. She took in the hardest kids with compassion and laughter. How on earth had a four year old ended up there? How had he not recalled that house as his first recliner?

~o~

 

Taking action feels better. Not good, exactly, but better. Nell submerges herself in work. Few things absorb her full attention like analyzing data, interesting data. Data that solves problems. Law enforcement has no shortage of such, so it’s easy for her to pick two new projects to start in addition to her day job and training.

Forced to stitch this Callen she knows now to fragments of memory – the reassuring grip of warm fingers, a chuckle only she garnered, _devotchka moya_ – robs her of solace that was already as fragile as spider’s silk.

 Matt works at home on a much anticipated comic by a well known popular author. His office had humble beginnings as a second bedroom, thoroughly converted into an office/studio with both the analogue easel as well as the massive digital illustration platform on a souped up mac. Nell’s home office is her laptop on the bed. They both work into the nights to a classic rock soundtrack.  

OSP is another matter entirely. Just as Nell eases back into her normal behavior around Callen, he becomes noticeably hyper aware of her. At first she thinks she’s imagining his eyes on her, but she soon realizes he’s watching her closely. His attention narrowed on her once before for a short time a couple years ago when something romantic nearly happened. He’s not a subtle man. His current attention isn’t either romantic or platonic, rather something between.

The change from Nell avoiding Callen to Callen studying Nell confuses the team. Hetty doesn’t help when she begins mixing up partner assignments. Today, Marty works with an LAPD detective at a crime scene, Kensi and Sam interview witnesses and relatives, while Callen works surveillance with Eric. Meanwhile Nell and Granger work the web, searching through intel trying to locate a suspect who’s in the wind. Tech ops is crowded with four of them working full out and Hetty lurking at the conference table editorializing.

The bustle of the case does make the day whip past. Still, Nell senses Callen at her back every moment. Mid-afternoon her flag on their suspect’s passport pays off when it hits at Sea-Tac. Hetty heads out to talk the situation over with Vance and SecNav. Granger grabs Callen for the trip to Seattle, while Nell sends Homeland agents over to hold the suspect. Callen’s abrupt departure from Nell’s space is physical relief like shedding a heavy coat.

In the lull, Eric spins in his chair. “What the hell is up with you and Callen?”

Nell shrugs. “Nothing. We’ve got a… just an awkward thing. It’ll work itself out.”

His brows are up. “That’s what I thought a couple weeks ago.”

She cuts him a look that sends him back to work.

Without looking at her Eric continues. "Did you have a fight about something?"

"No."

"Misunderstanding?"

"Stop it."

"Inquiring minds want to know. Sam already tried to get it out of Callen."

"Mmmm."

"Well, whatever it is, it's making everyone a little uncomfortable. "

"That's unfortunate." Nell’s fingers fly over her keyboard, her eyes remain on her screen. “I’m sure _everyone_ will adjust and accommodate.” Her tone sharpens on the noun.

Socially awkward as he is, Eric is nothing if not an excellent and experienced Nell wrangler. Gaging they have at least another half hour before more mayhem ensues, he makes a calculated shift in tactics. Turning his chair to face her, he rolls until his knees touch her skirt. “I don’t like seeing you unhappy. I’m not always sure you’d ask. But if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to do it.”

“Eric.” The edge is gone from her voice.

He puts a hand on her arm, effectively stopping her work. “This is probably a terrible time and place.” He says. “Come over tonight? We can amp up Code of Honor. Talk. Yes?”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t even glance at him.

“Milo will make cheese puffs.” Eric offers. His rumpled, older, LAPD homicide detective boyfriend is the best Nell wrangler possible. Milo looks and often acts like the human variation of a grizzly. In addition, he’s an amazing chef and the perfect confidant. Milo’s cheese puffs are a pastry delight of cheese and sausage he only makes on demand for Nell.

“Cheating.” Nell grumbles.

“You bet.” Eric confirms, moving back to his workstation.

~

Nell watches Eric and Milo putter around their massive kitchen from the vantage of one of her favorite spots in the entire world, the hanging basket chair in the kitchen bay. Early evening sun fills the space with rosy warmth, augmented by the smell of cheesy wonderfulness coming from one oven and roasting duck in another oven. The chair swings gently. Blues plays softly on the sound system, filtering through the house. Eric and Milo have the homiest home she’s experienced.

Milo brings her a glass of wine. “Word on the street is you’re bitterly unhappy and one G Callen is the cause. Want me to go beat the shit out of him?”

Nell almost spits out her first sip of the crisp white wine. “No.” She laughs. “I don’t. And he’s not the cause of anything. Who’ve you been listening to?” She shoots Eric a look. “I’m not unhappy.”

Eric snorts. Milo grins. “I’ve been listening to Eric, Marty and Kensi. And if you’re happy, then I’m delicate. I’m not buying it, sunshine. What’s happened?”

Without a backwards thought, Nell tells them everything. True to their natures, Eric analyzes and Milo fixes. Eric immediately gets all the layers of complication surrounding how Nell and Callen feel about each other, newly stirred by the revelation of their shared past. Milo begins sorting.

“Well, you gotta go see Cheryl, kiddo. There’s no excuse not to. Not her fault you and Callen ended up in the same corner of the world. I’m sure she’d love to see you. And you’ll hate yourself if she dies before you get around to her.” Milo decides. “I know she’s had probably a million fosters over the years, but you’re the only one she had for ten years, who she thinks of as hers. 

“That’s only because bio-mom never gave up rights or got sober.” Nell complains.

“Nonsense. Cheryl didn’t have to keep you.” Milo says. “Then. If you’re this twisted up about Callen, you aren’t actually with wonder boy.” His nickname for Matt. “You should’ve broken up with him last fall when he was such a dick. Now, you need to break up with him because you’re being a dick.” Milo points a huge stubby finger at her. “I’m sure you haven’t said boo to him about any of this.”

“I know. I know.” Nell admits. “But I don’t have anywhere to go. I’d have to find a place.”

This causes Milo to level an exasperated glance at Eric. “Uh huh. Sure. Stop it. Come here. Plenty of space. Lots of time.” Milo gets to his feet and goes to an oven where he bastes, sweet smelling steam rolling up to the ceiling and making Nell’s mouth water. “And don’t argue, please.” He continues. “You people without parents, honestly.” He grumbles. “No idea how to take care of yourselves. Constantly complaining and objecting. Always at loose ends.” He moves from the oven to the refrigerator, where he retrieves salad fixings. His voice is filled with affection. Nell has no idea how she would explain the comfort Milo is able to put into the grouchiest sentiments. Eric is a lucky man.

~o~

“D’you have a minute?” Nell stops in Hetty’s door.

Hetty waves her in. “I certainly do, have a seat.”

Nell perches on the edge of a chair in front of Hetty’s desk. “My foster mom is ill. She recently sent me some of my belongings. It turns out she was also Agent Callen’s last placement. She sent me a photo of the two of us.” Nell’s eyes narrow slightly. “Is there something… did you know anything about that?” In her senior year at Stanford, Nell discovered Hetty was the benefactor who created Nell’s scholarship, hand picked Nell from the entering class of applicants to sponsor.

Hetty considers Nell over her glasses. “I knew you ran from the same foster home he did. I did not know you were both there at the same time.” Hetty steeples her hands on the desk. “Remarkable.”

Nell always chooses to believe Hetty. She’s also aware it’s always a choice. As far as Nell can tell, Hetty doesn’t lie to her. But, Hetty is also very selective about what truth she shares. Nell suppresses a sigh, folds her lips against a protest. She swallows down several questions, nods, stands.

“Nell.”

Nell stops.

“Things have a way of working themselves out. Keep your head up.”

Nell blinks. “I will.” She hesitates at the door and looks back. Hetty’s warm brown gaze greets her. “My foster mom is dying. I’d like to take some time to visit her.”

“Of course.”

Nell heads back upstairs to tech ops. That was easier than she’d feared. Fine, in fact. As was talking to Matt. Some tiny part of her would’ve liked to have a fight with him or at least feel he was surprised by her defection. The rest of her is content with his acknowledgement they aren’t each other’s one and only. They’d fit all of her belongings into her car neatly, wished each other well and she’d left. She’s comfortably moved into Eric and Milo’s guest suite and she’ll fly up to Chicago this weekend and say good-bye to Cheryl. Hetty is always right. Things will work themselves out.

She settles in at her workstation and pulls up her email. A small voice in the back of her head recalls a line from the movie Walk The Line wherein Johnny tells June things will work out and she replies “No, John. Things do _not_ work out. _People_ work things out _for_ you.”

~o~

Four more days of work before her little vacation. Nell stays busy and cautiously routine. From outside she’s sure OSP seems the hub of mysterious critical action. There’s a shocking amount of down time. Paperwork days outnumber the nation threatening mayhem by easily three to one. Research, gathering intel, coordinating with the rest of NCIS, the Navy and Homeland all takes a lot of time and effort. Another chunk of time is all about training, staying ready. Gym, shooting range.

Nell puts in her time with all the various activities of field agent practice. Otherwise she’s available to Homeland and NSA for intel analysis. That third of her work isn’t transparent to her team outside Hetty and Granger. Of course, Eric can see she’s intensely busy when there’s no case. He knows better than prying. When anything classified is up, she moves to the boathouse, where she has a workstation fully integrated with NSA.

Today is relatively quiet, although there’s a dead Navy Seal downtown that may become work. At the moment it looks like a suicide they can work from their desks. Nell keeps an eye on LAPD communication on the case while prepping a briefing to SecNav about the unrest in Yemen. She’s unprepared for Callen to slouch into the chair next to her workstation, hands tented speculatively. “Hetty says you’re going to Chicago?”

Nell glances reflexively at the stairs, then the time. “Excuse me?” She bids for a moment to think.

“I'd like to go with you.”

“No.” None of his business. Nell stands. “Of course not.”

“Why not?” He’s following her.

“Why?” She counters, maneuvering around him to the stairs.

“To see Cheryl. Clarify some things for myself. Figure out how to fix this with us.” Callen’s tone is matter of fact. Behind him, Eric’s eyebrows have danced up to the ceiling and his mouth is pressed tight against what might be a laugh. 

“There’s nothing to fix.” Nell assures him, trotting down the stairs. If she thought arriving in the bullpen would be an improvement over tech ops, the alert faces of the rest of the team put an end to hopes. She turns toward the gym, Callen at her side.

In the hallway, Nell stops. “Why is this happening?” She asks so one in particular.

Callen shrugs. “I want us to keep working together, at least as well as we were a month ago. Ignoring how nuts it is I know you doesn’t work. You ignoring me doesn’t work.” He spreads his hands between them. The same hands that taught her to recognize chess pieces – this is a king, this is a rook. “Come on, Nell. We just found out we knew each other as kids. We could be celebrating the connection, happy we found each other. Instead, you’re angry with me and I don’t know why.”

“You want to know why? I can tell you why. For six months, I thought you took care of me because you wanted to, not because you had to or because the state paid you to. That was a first for me. Turned out I was wrong. Little kids are wrong all the time. Nothing special. I got over it. I certainly never let anyone…” She halts. None of his business. She swallows. “I am not angry with you. I’m angry with the universe for shoving you back into my life. And, no I don’t want us to work together. Or anything. I don’t need the reminders. So there’s nothing for you to fix.” She hears her voice break. Damn it. She sucks in a breath. “Whatever needs fixing, I will fix. No going with me anywhere.”

“How?” He asks. “How will you fix this?”

Her sigh brims with frustration. “I’ll get another job. I’ll make another life.” I’ll run, she thinks. She ducks past him and into the gym. Through the gym, she takes the back stairs out into the sunshine and across the lawn to the boathouse. She can finish what she was doing up in the boathouse tech ops.

Callen watches her go. Getting to be a familiar sight. What the hell. He wrestles with conflicting needs to follow her and analyze what she just said. Clearly he’s not welcome on her heels. He stands still, replaying the past two minutes of smoldering eyes, cheeks growing pink with indignation. Not a side of Nell he’s ever seen. Unless you count what he hadn’t known he’d seen 26 years ago. He closes his eyes. Somehow he has to put these two people together. She’s not different, she’s what… she’s a bit masked, she’s contained. ‘Because you wanted to…’ Christ what does that even mean?

Callen has experienced more than one lifetime’s worth of loss. He’s dealt with it through anger, by hiding, by becoming other people, by honing himself into a weapon. He’s managed more instances of not being wanted than he cares to consider. He sighs. He turns and begins walking slowly back to his desk. Despite everything, the first five years of his life were filled with love and light and laughter. If he was the first person who ever wanted to take care of Nell it means she hadn’t had that. He knows exactly what she means by people paid to take care of her. He hated the disingenuous nature of each and every one of those relationships.  He fears he knows the end of the sentence she cut off, too, she never let anyone… else take care of her.

He bypasses the bullpen and three sets of curious eyes. “Hetty?” He stops in Hetty’s door, seeing Hetty and Granger in conversation. They both look up at his interruption. He shakes his head. “Later.” He backs out, annoyed. He pivots into Sam, who catches him neatly by the upper arms. “Sorry.”

“What happened? What did you do to Nell?” Sam asks.

Why does everyone seem to think he’s the culprit? He scowls. Sam raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and moves aside. Callen brushes past. He needs a break. He needs to drive.

Comfortably behind the wheel of his Mercedes, Callen points the car at the highway, west. He clears his mind of irritation and begins sorting information. Before Nell, he was the best analyst on the team. It occurs to him she’s a superstar at what she does for the same reason he is. Survival, plain and simple. If you are four years old and fending for yourself you become crazy good at reading people and situations. You learn how to run, how to get low and stay low. You vanish. Then you learn how to hunt. Callen has watched Nell hunt suspects through space and time, using technology, history, street smarts, book smarts and the willingness to slither around any barrier, real or imagined. He’s seen her duck behind brilliance and humor, staying just out of sight.

He parks at the beach, heading down past the dunes to the sand. The wind is high, waves big. Lots of folks have boards out on the surf. Between the gulls, pipers and people, it’s pleasantly noisy and cheerful. He walks. Six months, twenty six years ago, is a tiny target for his memory. He anchors his recollection to Nell’s arrival at Cheryl’s house. A small, angry face. Huge eyes, taking him in, measuring and finding him acceptable. And why not? There was no one else there. Not really. Survival is a funny thing. He sighs.

She had very quiet nightmares, quaking in her sleep without even waking. Had someone threatened her into sleep? He didn’t sleep at all, for much the same reasons, he imagines. When the tears began he’d get milk, maybe a sandwich; the kid didn’t eat during mealtimes, scrounging food when no one noticed. He’d wake her up gently, feed her, rub her back, talk to her in Russian about his mother of all things, ease her back into sleep. He stops walking, caught in the recall, rests his hands on his knees and stares at the sand beneath his feet. She’d go to sleep holding onto the hem of his t-shirt. The nausea surprises him. It’s been a long time since his stomach got away from him. He tamps down the lurch of sorrow. She’s about six steps from running and for some reason it’s of urgent importance to him.

His phone vibrates and Hetty appears onscreen. “Mr. Callen, can I assume Miss Jones informed you of your prior acquaintance?”

Well, there’s one way to look at it, G smiles. “She did.”

“Are you well?”

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. He has no idea. “She’s…” He trails off.

“You wanted to speak with me earlier.” Hetty prompts.

“Yeah. I don’t know what to do with this, this, damn it. I asked to go with her to Chicago to visit Cheryl. Didn’t go so well.”

Hetty’s brows rise. “I imagine not.” She doesn’t ask him what he was thinking. At least not out loud. “A bit presumptuous, I expect.” She finally allows.

“Yeah, I got that.” He chuffs. “I need to do something. I just don’t know what.”

“Why?”

Hetty’s question stops him. He blinks. “Hetty, she’s unhappy.” There’s a plaintive note in his voice he doesn’t like. “She’s leaving. She says she’s going to get another job. She doesn’t want to work with me.”

“I’m aware. Mr. Callen, you are not her supervisor nor are you her friend. Why do you feel the need to do anything?”

Hetty’s comments slice through him, her question nettles. G knows she’s provoking him to think harder about the situation, but he’d appreciate some more straightforward help. He sighs. Hetty’s smile widens. A moment longer, just for emphasis he’s sure, and Hetty lets him off the hook. “Return to work, please. You’re required to meet Mr. Hanna at a crime scene, the details are on your phone. We’ll discuss the other matter this evening over a glass of whiskey.” She’s gone.

The crime scene is a mess and Callen and Sam have their hands full with two dead marines, three dead young women, LAPD, media and Homeland. The confusion about whether the trafficking included espionage or if perhaps a shore leave went horribly awry keeps the team busy for the rest of the day and a large part of the evening. It’s late before Hetty declares whatever happened is no longer happening and they can break for the night.

Sam keeps pace with G on the way toward their cars. When they’re out of earshot of the crime scene team he touches G’s arm. “Hey.”

They stop and face each other. Sam raises his eyebrows and waits. G glares, defiance first to surface on his face. Sam tilts his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

G shrugs, relaxes his stance. “I just found out… Nell found... There’s a…”

“Wow.” Sam comments on G’s inarticulateness. “Must be serious. We all know you two were in foster care together and you left her. What just happened? Skip to this morning.”

“I didn’t leave anyone.” G protests. He hesitates. “Exactly. I left foster care.”

“G, she was Maya’s age. What else was she gonna think?” Sam’s youngest is almost five. “You know how Maya feels about you. You wouldn’t go off and leave her.”

True. Maya loves her Uncle G and the sentiment is returned. “I was sixteen.”

“What would a four year old know from sixteen? I didn’t say you did anything wrong. Let up, man. I’m just trying to see it from her point of view for a minute.” Sam explains. “What d’you do this morning?”

“The foster mom is sick and Nell’s going to visit her. I asked to go.”

Sam shakes his head. “Let me guess. She said no.”

“She said no.”

“That put you in a pout?”

“Can I please get a break?” G’s frustration edges his voice. “She said she doesn’t want to work with me. She says she’s leaving, Sam. I have this feeling she’s leaving the team because of something I did twenty-six years ago. Something I can’t undo.”

“G, it’s possible whatever’s going on with her now has nothing to do with you. She’s dealing with her past as best she can. You know what it’s like. Let her be. Let yourself be, man.” Sam clapped G on the shoulder. “Come have dinner at the house. “

G weighs the evening talking to Hetty against dinner with the family. The lure of the girls is always powerful and he inclines his head. “Dinner sounds great.”

~o~

Hetty gazes over the team. “We have a request from Homeland to assist infiltrating an extensive Eastern European arms market operating out of Russia and the US. Homeland has invested a great deal of surveillance, and primed the potential for engaging directly with the cartel. Our friend Arkady Kolcheck has been enlisted to make contact, which he has done. Mr. Kolcheck is willing to pursue the operation further, but not without help.”

“He wants G.” Sam says.

“He does.” Owen Granger says. “We’re looking at a possibly long term undercover op, likely to take two of you off the grid for a matter of months. Director Vance is assigning a new agent to our team and I’ll be available.”

Marty and Kensi exchange glances. One of them is bound to be assigned the probie. Which puts one of them with Granger. They’re both looking unhappy. Callen looks resigned and Sam beings to sort out smoothing over the absence with Michelle.

Nell snags the attention of the group. “Mr. Kolcheck has initiated contact with a Karsten Milovich.” A picture pops up on the plasma screen. “Wanted by Interpol for arms and human trafficking. Milovich is a middle man for the Sarloff syndicate operating out of St. Petersburg.” Details about known activities of Milovich and the syndicate scroll up. Callen steps forward to read.

Hetty continues. “Mr. Kolcheck has been invited to meet with Sarloff to discuss a preliminary small weapons sale. We have an opportunity to get a great deal of information about the extent of the syndicate, its personnel and carrying capacity. Miss Jones will pose as Mr. Kolcheck’s daughter and business manager. Mr. Callen, you will pose as her husband and act as their security detail.”

Nell glances at her tablet. “The meeting takes place in Paris in two weeks, where Mr. Kolcheck has an apartment. We’ll get a lay of the land in terms of syndicate personnel and create some backdoor access within the syndicate’s cyber systems if we can. With that intel, Homeland will make the call about next steps.”

“This is the best shot anyone’s had at this group.” Hetty says. “We take it and see where it leads.”

The only person in the room wholly unaware of why absolute silence has fallen is Owen Granger. He peers at the group, shakes his head. “Alright people. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The team troupes down the stairs. “Wow.” Marty says. “That just happened.”

Sam grumbles. “I’m not partnering with Granger.”

“Well, I doubt he’s going up in tech ops.” Kensi says.

Callen follows Hetty into her office. “Did she…”

“Miss Jones was fully briefed, Mr. Callen. Now, you have a legend to learn and plenty of homework on the Sarloffs. Two weeks. You also need to grow some hair. 

~

Nell picks up where she left off creating legends for her, Callen and Arkady Kolcheck’s fictional little family. The reservation she felt accepting the mission isn’t eased by Callen’s stoic reaction. Of course, Hetty probably talked to him earlier. She’s suspicious of Hetty’s somewhat Machiavellian approach to her orphans, but even Hetty couldn’t manufacture such a complex situation just to meddle with Nell and Callen. Surely.

Tomorrow she’ll be on a plane to Chicago, the unfinished business with Cheryl looming. At least she’ll have buckets of work to keep her mind clear. A deep cover op will pad out her resume perfectly. She’s got a few feelers out at NSA and mission cred will only help.

“And three, two…” Eric intones from beside her just in time for her to note Callen’s approach.

“Nell?”

“Hmmm?” Her fingers fly.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Surreally, images of Nell and Callen begin appearing on the plasma screen. Their wedding, vacation shots, operations is immaculate at fabricating history. Nell and Arkady on a yacht. She turns away from it all and looks up into Callen’s face. He’s mesmerized by the screen for several more seconds. She stands in his line of vision. “We should.” She says. “Outside?” The security cameras will still pick them up, but at least Eric won’t actually be listening to them.

In the warmth of midday sun they stop in the shade of the building. Callen gazes at her. “We can’t do this if you won’t look at me.”

“I’m looking at you right now.” She says

“If you won’t touch me.” He counters.

She presses her lips. He extends his hand. Prove him wrong, she thinks, and slides her hand into his. His fingers close around hers. She tightens her clasp, gazes up into the impossible blue of his eyes, now clouded with concern. Yep, there he is. Her nostrils flare, the only sign of her discomfort.

“We live it for a week.” He says in Russian. “If it works we do it. If not, I go in alone.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, her own Russian fluent. He smiles.

“We do the homework, build the legends, live together for the next week. If we can do it, so be it. If not…” His eyebrow arches. 

Every reason to walk away from him floats through her mind. But, he’s right. Neither of them is willing to say no nor can either of them afford to fail in the middle of this mission. “I’m not living at your house.” She says.

“Well, I’m not moving in with Eric and Milo.” He says.

“We’ll talk to Hetty.”

He nods. “And when we talk to each other, it’s in Russian. We need to get our accents closer together.” It takes a couple of days for him to sound like a native again. Her fluency is a little formal. They can watch some tv and movies to smooth out the edges.

For the first time in months a twinkle of mischief flares in Nell’s eyes. Callen tilts his head. She suppresses a giggle. “Let’s move in with Arkady.”

He laughs. “Perfect.” He releases her hand.

~o~

“G Callen. Long time.” Milo wipes his hands on a dishtowel and meets Callen in the middle of the kitchen. “From everything I hear, you’ll have your work cut out for you wrangling Nell and Kolcheck. Don’t envy you.”

“I bet you don’t.” Callen leans on a barstool. “How have you been? How’s things over in the seventh?”

Milo and Callen indulge in cop shoptalk. Upstairs, Eric perches on Nell’s bed while she finishes packing. “How is it,” he drawls, “yesterday you were all about moving to Timbuktu to get away from him and now you’ve agreed to live with him?”

Nell tosses her toothbrush into a small bag of toiletries. “Such exaggerations.” She zips the bag closed and tucks it into her carry on case. “I was talking about moving to Virginia and I’m not going be living with him.” She pauses, considers. “Not for very long.” She amends.

Eric grins, stretching out. “I, for one, hope the two of you find your way together. You make an adorable couple.”

“Stop. We don’t make a couple of any kind.”

“He’s luscious. You have to admit that.”

“I’m telling Milo.”

“I’m right.”

“You are right.” She weighs two pairs of tennis shoes, settles on the high-tops. She kicks off her ballet flats and skims out of her dress. “But for all I know he’s still hooking up with Joelle.”

“I can’t imagine him hooking up, ever. He’s too intense for that. Sam says they broke up free and clear.”

Nell tugs on jeans. She digs in a drawer and produces a grey t-shirt.

“You know the only reason you’re pissed at him is cuz you like him.” Eric says.

“Urgh.” Nell groans her irritation, avoiding his pointed gaze by pulling the shirt over her head. “Evil boy.”

Eric rubs his hands together, chuckles.

Milo and Eric see them off from their front porch. Hetty nixed Arkady’s for the night, giving them a key to a yacht anchored in Marina Del Rey and plane tickets to Chicago for the following day show up in Callen’s email. They leave Nell’s car and head for the mooring in Callen’s Mercedes. And while they’ve had most of the day and the better part of the evening to adjust to the plan they’ve put in place, it’s the first time they’re truly alone together. In response they’re both quiet, wrapped in thought.

Nell’s hyper aware of Callen’s presence in a way she hasn’t been in a couple of years. Not that there’s any chance he’ll ever be attracted to her now he knows she’s that filthy little kid from foster hell he had to look after. The best she’ll get is some flavor of brotherly… what…

“What?” He startles her.

“What, what?”

“You look pissed again.”

“No, um. S’nothing.” She doesn’t even know where to begin. A slight shudder runs through her frame.

“You see? That. That’s what I mean. You can’t have that reaction to me asking you a simple question and convince someone we’re married to each other at the same time. Can’t be done. What the hell was that?” Callen pulls the car to the curb and turns to face her. “You find me…. creepy?” He frowns.

Nell giggles. “No.”

“No.”

“No.”

He sighs. “I am sorry I ran on you all those years ago. Me being a kid doesn’t mean it didn’t make your life harder when that was the last thing you needed. It’s taken me the better part of these years to let go of the damage done to me by people who intended well. So I know how that can go. If I tripped over one of them tomorrow I have no idea how I’d react.”

“How about if you tripped over one of them in form of someone you care how they see you?” She asks. His eyes darken, focusing on her tightly. Heat floods her face. She sighs, her eyes drift shut against his stunned expression. “Yeah. Like that.”

From the silence comes his hand on her wrist, strong fingers closing gently. Then his voice. “I’d be volcanically mad.” She hears the click as she feels his hand release her seatbelt. Hands on her shoulders turn her toward him. “I don’t like feeling that kind of out of control. I might run.” She opens her eyes to find his closer than she expected. “I would never tell you. Everybody knows you’re braver than I am.” There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “When we get to this… yacht…” he smiles over the word. “We crack a bottle of wine and tell each other everything we can from then till now. We make the edges match up. We see where we are. Right now there’re still two of you for me. Gotta resolve that, then we see.”

“For that we’ll need whiskey.”

~

Callen’s lawlessness was on the streets of Los Angeles, Russia, the Ukraine, Israel, Afghanistan and Poland. Nell’s was in the suburbs of Chicago and deep in the dark web. Like their overlapping sojourns in foster care, when he was deep undercover for the CIA she hacked the agency’s field agent rosters. He’d heard rumors in the ranks about the hack. She’d heard in the ether about the hit in Russia. Hetty’s yacht is snug, but lush. 21 year old Glen Livet, crystal snifters, classical music, silk upholstery.

They’re a couple glasses into the scotch before broaching anything about relationships. She listens carefully to his confirmation of what she’s read in his files about his parents and sister. He adds detail about grandparents and an uncle. She has no idea who her father is, or was. Her little brother is just a snapshot and a story.

When the night gives way to morning, they match up memories of Cheryl’s house. Nell curls into a ball on the couch, a reflexive defense against a long gone world. Callen rests a hand on her back, a patch of warmth seeps through her t-shirt. When she fingers the hem of his t-shirt their eyes meet, thickening the strand of recognition linking them.

“It was you.” He says.

“And you.” She says. She curls up to sit, crossing her legs under her butt and rocking forward until her hands rest on his chest, her face inches from his. She could put her cheek on his shoulder and drift to sleep. Or she could kiss him.

Nell’s lips ghost over Callen’s mouth, her breath soft and hot. The touch is so light it’s an inference, a request. He leans and crushes his mouth to hers, his hands gathering fabric up her back, pressing her to him until their lips fit together. Her mouth opens under his, grants entrance and he drinks of her for a long moment.

They pull apart to breathe. “As long as that’s clear.” She says.

“Yes.”

She nods. Licks her lips, tastes him there, her smile widens. She nods again. “I’m afraid I’d rather be sober for anything more.”

“Good call.” His gaze drifts over her face, his smile languid. “Well, the only thing for it is sleep.” He takes her hand. They shift from the couch and make their way to the bedroom. Without comment they settle on the feather duvet and let sleep take them, fully clothed, curled around each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Nell surfaces from a thick sleep, consciousness creeping up slowly through a mash of foggy dreams. The complete lack of a familiar frame of reference nudges her back towards sleep. Whatever’s going on, perhaps she can sleep through it.

Callen wakes instantly, like falling into water he’s immersed in his senses. He’s always experienced waking as sudden and complete and often wondered if it’s more temperament or conditioning. Nell smells amazing, something he’s thought for years. A combination of myrrh and sandalwood so faint you have to be right on her to catch it.

This new combination of waking and smelling Nell is ridiculously pleasant. He opens his eyes to strands of mahogany hair, sunlight, the curve of her neck. She seems hover between sleeping and awake. He traces back over the previous day and night. If he really hoped for a return to the relationship he and Nell had a month ago, he needs to let go of the idea as impossible. The only possibilities are get much closer or leave her. Again. His body answers before his brain. He tightens around her, arms, belly, legs. In response, Nell snuggles, dipping her chin to touch her mouth to his arm, her butt nestling closer to his belly, a foot curling around his calf.

G, she thinks. Her thoughts fuzz with drowsiness. Nice. The sound of gulls and a nearby engine root her memory to the harbor, the yacht. She burrows closer to G, enjoying the curve of his chest against her back. In sleep, she’s pulled the duvet up around her so she’s tucked in all around. She smiles. Nice.

A few minutes pass. There’s a lot of activity outside, voices, motors, birds. She realizes G’s awake. She imagines remaining in the suspended place between sleeping and waking, a sure sign she’s waking up. She arches her back and turns over in the curve of G’s arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. She hums.

Nell purring has to be a good thing. G grins. “Hi.”

“Mmmm.”

“You waking up?”

“Seem to be.”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. She tilts her head to see him, squinting. “God, you’re close.”

“I am.” He says. “Not as close as I can be.” He coils, fits around her, encompasses her, his laugh vibrating. He nuzzles her neck, kissing the skin at her shoulder, grazing with his teeth. Nell squeaks surprise. Torn between knowing she ought to escape and wanting him, a deep sigh spills up, equal parts desire and regret. Callen groans and releases her. “As long as that’s clear.”  He murmurs in her ear. He rolls away, stretching. She watches him stand and duck into the bathroom.

If she hadn’t slept in her clothes, which leaves her feeling disheveled and stiff, she’d linger in the bed. Instead she finds her feet on the floor. She contemplates changing clothes, taking a shower, feels too lazy to bother. She consults her reflection in the mirror. Her jeans and t-shirt survived the night just fine. She wriggles around in her bra to get it comfortable again. A brush and some lip-gloss after a quick scratch around the teeth will be enough. The real killer is she slept in her contacts. Her eyes ache 

G returns, grumbling. “That bathroom is the size of a thimble. I’ll shower and change at the gym before we leave.” They have a late afternoon flight to Chicago.

After scrubbing her face and teeth, now sans contacts, Nell agrees about the shower. They grab tacos for breakfast on the way in to OSP.

Callen and Nell at odds weirded out the team, but it’s nothing compared to the singular freakiness of Callen and Nell in each other’s pockets, speaking to each other softly in Russian. Callen, Sam, Kensi and Marty have all watched each other drift deep into character and undercover. Seeing it often doesn’t make the experience any less chilling. The team keeps a careful eye on bespectacled Nell as she begins to disappear into someone softer, more talkative, funnier than the person they know. If asked, Marty would’ve predicted Nell to be terrible at assuming a legend. The demeanor he interpreted to be a core earnestness seemed unassailable. But, he can’t argue that the person standing at Callen’s shoulder existed yesterday.

Nell loses patience and perches on Callen’s knee, pulling his keyboard from under his hands. “Here. This.” She taps, points.

Sam comes to join them. “It’s just weird, not having any idea what you two are talking about. What is it?”

Nell switches to English. “Arkady sent this.” She points to a scan of a document written in cyrillic Russian. Sam glares down at her. “His daughter’s birth certificate. He’s asking if I can use it to build my legend around. I don’t know.” Her attention returns to the screen, then to G

Callen’s shaking his head. “I didn’t know he has a daughter.”

“He doesn’t. He did. She died with her mother in a car accident shortly after they moved to the states. It’s sweet he’s asking, but I’ll have to run it by Hetty.” Nell hops up and heads for Hetty’s office.

Sam shifts his gaze to G. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“So… you two worked out your little dust up about the past?” There’s a frost of skepticism on Sam’s voice.

G shrugs. “Sort of. Enough.”

“Okay. Good.” Sam says. “You do not hurt her.” The words are instructions and threat. Sam’s still a bit irked by how G’s romance with Joelle ended. He gets relationships end. But, he has a feeling G wasn’t ever really in a relationship with Joelle. He can’t tell exactly what’s happened between G and Nell since last night, but he cannot imagine Nell can pretend a romance with the precision G can.

G sees Sam’s doubts, but at the moment he’s more concerned Arkady ever had a daughter, let alone a dead one. He really doesn’t want Arkady and Nell to build their respective filial wishes into this charade. Not that some genuine feeling doesn’t go a long way in building a useful alias. Before he can do anything about it, Nell returns with a smug smile. “Guess I am Gemma. Now what about you?”

~o~

Sam sits in the Challenger watching Nell and G at curbside check-in with fascination. Between OSP and LAX they’ve both shed the very last of the day-to-day persona’s he’s accustomed to. Weird. He’s seen G do it plenty. G slips in and out of a legend with ease Sam’s envies. For Sam to even use an alias takes time and effort, and that’s when he’s just trying on a different history. Sam’s himself, first and foremost. Uncover work about kills him. G isn’t anyone and he take on a legend as if it’s a relief, like it’s a jacket. Apparently Nell can do it, too.

The pair of them showed up this morning talking Russian to each other, with an intimacy of gestures and expressions between them looking for all the world as if they’d been together for years. Right this moment they’re standing close, Nell’s attention full on G, his body centered on her almost protectively. Sam watches them for another moment aware of a prickle of fear he may not see them again. At least not like he’s known them until now. Unsettling.

Sam shifts the car into drive and navigates away from the curb. He points the car back to work. He’s not a fan of Arkady, the CIA or G being undercover for extended periods of time. He takes a little comfort knowing G will protect Nell, regardless of what kind of trouble Arkady stirs up. But, he’s beginning to wonder if she needs it. Why is he tempted to text the words ‘take care’ to G? Michelle teases him for hovering over their kids. She sometimes puts G in that category, too. Sam chuffs a breath of exasperation. As he’d feared, Sam hits late afternoon traffic. By the time he gets back to OSP, the workday will be over.

~o~

It’s easier to frame this trip to Chicago as something he’s doing for Nell. G knows the picture he keeps in his wallet jarred something loose in his memories of being in foster care. Someone told him once upon a time he’d never be done juggling how he feels about the past. True that. For reasons he’ll have to discuss with Nate later, all this with Nell brings his tendency to make trouble into sharp focus. He’s capitalized on his bad boy ways plenty. But that’s not why he’d cultivated his skills by thwarting authority. That’d been about making others pay some small price for his losses. He glances at the small square hands deftly sorting boarding passes and tipping the bellman. Apparently he succeeded beyond his intentions.

Nell flashes her badge at the TSA checkpoint and slips through the pre-approved entrance with Callen on her heels. The quick check of his firearm takes an extra minute and she wonders if he’s ever not armed. This aspect of him isn’t one she’s ever thought much about. Whenever they’ve worked together, they’d both been armed with purpose. Generally, Nell doesn’t feel a need to carry. She’s been able to defend herself for as long as she can remember, she didn’t get a gun until Quantico. She mostly relies on her ability to think her way through danger. She smiles.

After an uneventful flight and check in at the airport hotel, G rents a car and the pair sets out to find the hospice. There’s a lot you can learn about someone going through the motions of routines. Nell is left handed, and tends to precede G when walking, sitting, moving through a door. She’s also surprisingly decisive. She doesn’t consult him about where to sit, a path to take through a crowd. Though he finds it slightly awkward, G settles into following her lead. She travels light, nothing in the way of cosmetics, one pair of shoes. She keeps her id and a credit card in a slide compartment of her phone case in her back pocket and doesn’t carry a purse. During the idle travel time she works, dragging him into discussions about arms sales and the provenance of internet sites on the dark web. He gathers she’s building the dummy Kolcheck family business.

The rental car navigation system gets them to the hospice, a series of buildings nestled into a former estate amongst  tall trees and well tended gardens. Nell feels an inward sigh of apprehension. She has little enough experience with people dying. Strange as it in some ways to have Callen tagging along, his presence is an interesting distraction. Cheryl will love seeing him, knowing he’s alright.

Nell nearly doesn’t recognize the woman in the wheelchair turning to greet them. Always thin, Cheryl is skeletal, with translucent skin. Yet, her hands are strong, gripping Nell’s, her smile is the same. “Munchkin. I’m so glad to see you.” Papery dry lips press to Nell’s forehead when she bends for a hug.

“I’m glad to see you, too.” Nell’s voice is soft and low. “I wasn’t sure I’d get here in time.” She confides. The sensation she may never see this woman again drips into her bones with acidic chill.

“Well, I was certain I wouldn’t live to see you bring a gentleman friend to meet me.” Cheryl says.

Nell snickers. Cheryl has pestered her about falling in love for years. “If you need to go there, alright. But, he actually came to see you, not me. Cheryl, this is G Callen.”

Cheryl’s eyes flash to Callen, widening with surprise. “Well, I declare.” She murmurs, Tennessee twang of her childhood coloring the words. “You found him.”

“Hmmm. In a fashion.” Nell has no idea where to start on how she ‘found’ him.

Cheryl extends a hand to Callen and he steps forward.

“Hi.” Spidery fingers grip his hand. Callen bends and kisses Cheryl’s brow. “I’m so sorry I ran off that way.”

“You were just the devil himself.” She says. “But brilliant. I hoped you landed on your feet.” Cheryl pats his cheek.

“Not at first.” He says. “But, yes. I’m okay.”

“This child pined for you like no one’s business.” Cheryl flutters a hand at Nell. “It’s no wonder she finally tracked you down.”

“It’s more like we tripped over each other again.” Callen says.

They’re standing in a brightly lit solarium, something from the 1920’s. Filled with plants, small tables and benches, clearly a frequent visitors lounge. Nell wheels Cheryl toward a small table where she and G pull up chairs. Cheryl fixes a narrow gaze on G, studying him. She finally asks. “What happened?”

“I don’t think I was ever in a placement much more than three months. Hated the whole situation.” He shakes his head. “I was with you almost, what, 8 months? That was because you were terrific.” His smile widens.

Cheryl returns his smile. ‘Guess I knew that. I still felt like I failed you somehow.”

“No. I turned out just fine.”

Nell blinks at this foray into utter bullshit, torn between laughing aloud, calling him on it, and just letting it go. Cheryl catches something in Nell’s expression. “He was charming, brilliant and horrible from day one. Something tells me that hasn’t changed a bit.”

“You always did see right through all of us.” Nell says. “He is a piece of work. But still in one piece. Now about you. I know, I know.” She pats Cheryl’s hand as the older woman looks away. “Just tell me enough to judge for myself if you’re comfortable.”

It’s slow, extracting the details of the progression of stomach cancer to bone cancer. Eventually, Nell’s satisfied with Cheryl’s medical care and current situation, and the conversation drifts to talking a bit about how Chicago has changed and local current affairs. Cheryl wants to know Nell’s thoughts on extreme Islam and the two begin discussing the finer points of all religious extremism starting back in the middle ages.

Callen appreciates how keenly Cheryl thinks about social issues and wonders if she and Nell have always talked about such. They’ve eased into an easy, complimentary give and take he’s seen Nell orchestrate many times at work. Later, Nell asks about Cheryl’s family, a brother’s family, a sister who lives nearby. How’d Callen allowed himself to think of the people he met in foster care as single units of humanity, instead of parts of families, histories? He’s loathe to admit how well he defended himself. And how much he missed as a result. Cheryl draws him into the conversation seamlessly, asking his thoughts, responding to his comments.

As dinner approaches, Cheryl shoos them off. “Go on now, my sister and niece are coming for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow. Go have some fun.”

By the time they leave the hospice manor, Nell and G have slipped entirely back into themselves.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see shifting into any Russian this evening.” Nell says, as the car starts.

“Yeah, me either.”

“Sadly unprofessional, but shit…”

His hand touches her thigh. “Don’t.” His voice is low. “Don’t apologize for caring about someone. It’s nice.”

She arches her brows. “Okaaaay.” She drawls.

“Why did you run?” He asks. They’ve talked about the facts of her running from foster care, but not the reasons.

“Why did you?” She deflects.

“Shit, I ran from a couple placements. Once I left to find my parents. Basically wanted to go home. Another time I ran from school, didn’t care one way of the other about the foster parents. Two of the placements were pretty rough. Lots of physical punishment. Ran from that. Ran from Cheryl because she was a do-gooder. Tired of it all. Just done.” He rolls out the explanations with ease.

Nell’s eyes narrow as she tries to gauge whether he’s telling the truth. She’s sure he’s being factual, but not if those are the real reasons he ran. “I never wanted to go home.” She allows. “Never was such a thing anyway. Being with bio mom sucked. Cheryl was okay. The other kids, though. I was tired of the abuse. Figured I could do better on my own.” Or die trying, she thinks.

“Did you?”

She shrugs. “Probably not. But by the time it got really dicey on the street, I was able to convince one of the vice principals at school I could test out of my junior and senior years and apply to college. College was better. Got a massive scholarship, courtesy of Hetty. Suddenly everything was paid for, I was living with normal people, eating every day, might as well have ended up over the rainbow. So it worked out.”

Callen doesn’t like any thoughts combining Nell with abuse or dicey. He glances at her, sitting primly in the passenger seat, looking out the windshield. The experience of using himself to gauge someone else’s well being is novel, to say the least. But with Nell, he’s more accurate if he guesses she’s feeling what he’s feeling than otherwise. Weird. If so, she’s intensely uncomfortable telling him any of this. He should drop it for a bit. “You hungry?”

“Yeah. What are you in the mood for?” Nell pulls out her phone and hits up Yelp for suggestions. They settle on a steakhouse between where they are and the hotel.

Settled in a plush leather booth over glasses of wine, Nell crosses her legs under her skirt and levels a measuring gaze on G. After a moment his brows raise. The corner of her mouth lifts. He tilts his head. “You have a question?”

A tiny shake of her head. “I still have a hard time understanding how you were, or are I guess, the same person who made me feel welcome all that time ago. Seeing you talking to Cheryl, she was so tickled when you said she was terrific.” Knowing neither of them meant a thing to him confuses her, hurts. “Charming.” It’s not a compliment.

G slides his hand across the table, covering hers, bringing her eyes back to him. “Okay, yeah. Charm is part of the defenses. How is that different from you being aloof, when you have really strong feelings?”

“At least it’s not hurting people.”

“Tell that to Cheryl.”

Anger flares in her eyes. “Ass.”

“That, too.” He says. “See, we are getting to know each other.” He leans back in the booth and sips wine, wishing it was whiskey. “What made you decide law enforcement?”

Nell considers not answering and smiles. Damn it. She sighs. “The third of fourth near miss while hacking was enough to convince me it would be easier to hack for the government than against them. You?”

“Not hacking, but yeah, similar. Then there was Hetty.”

She nods. “Me, too. Do you ever feel like she’s blackmailed you into service?”

He tilts his head. “Not exactly, but I know what you mean. I owe her.”

“Without her, your parents might still be alive. Maybe she owes you.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I went through a phase of that.”

Food arrives at the table, the aroma of red meat and potatoes stopping conversation. The last time Nell had a steak was almost a year ago. She tucks in, savoring the sheer satisfaction of chewing for a moment before she returns her attention to G. “Sam says when he met you you were basically a weapon.”

He swallows. “One way of looking back, yeah. Listen, I’m not gonna hurt you tonight. Can you let up?” Nell feigns innocence and he huffs. “Leave off the name calling for a bit.” She sniffs, takes a bite, chews. Although she isn’t talking, her gaze is a challenge. He’s tempted to provoke her, just a old reflex. Probably why she’s baiting him. Sam, who did say Callen was nothing but a weapon when they met, will get a huge kick out of this turn. Callen now on the receiving end of reflexive defense has its humor. The corner of his mouth lifts.

Nell smiles a little, curious. “What’s funny?”

“Hmmmph. Us.” He gestures between them. “Sad and taking it out on each other. Sam also says, when I do this, I’m acting like an orphan.”

“Ouch.” She lowers her fork to the plate, her smile widening. For a second, her eyes sparkle with mischief. “You’re right, of course. Bad habits. Truce?”

He inclines his head. “We’re not in any mood for work or conversation this evening. What would you like to do?”

“Oh, I expect I could work as long as we aren’t working at being other people. And we could talk about something other than ourselves. You probably don't you watch a lot of television?”

He laughs. “I don’t.”

“We could find a movie to go see.” She slips her phone from her pocket and opens the browser. “I want either lots of things exploding or the end of the world as we know it.”

~o~

The following day, G drops Nell off to visit Cheryl. The weather is dreary, a light mist falling from gray skies. He stops at a coffee shop and reads the paper. Mid-morning he checks in with Sam. The team found bomb making materials in the storage unit of a UCLA student, and is chasing the suspect through downtown LA. G hangs out with them on the chase via speakerphone for awhile providing helpful commentary until Hetty dismisses his help as distraction.  At loose ends for several hours, he  decides to visit the Art Institute of Chicago.

The huge museum is much like it was when he’d get lost here for hours as a kid, meandering amongst the exhibits, soaking up details of ancient weapons making or the art of mummification. He’s engrossed by the Thorne Miniature Rooms, staring at the very small scale models so perfect he expects to see tiny people appear. He takes several pictures, but they end up looking like life sized rooms. He takes a few with his hand in the frames, then texts the pictures to Jethro. He gets back a nearly instantaneous reply about the lathing of tiny banisters and stair treads. A second reply remarks on the tiny oriental rugs. G laughs.

Medieval arms and armor grab his attention, as it did when he was young. Clearly, the guys were really small. Odd to think. Although, Nell could probably wear some of this. Not that she needs it, her psychological armor could stop a truck. Six years ago, her armor would’ve been invisible to him. Even now, he’s not entirely sure she’s let it down an inch. He gazes at the pattern beaten into a shield and muses on Sam’s patience with him. Because of Sam’s diligence and - he should just go ahead and own it - love, G’s content in his relationships with Sam’s family, with Hetty. Hell, with himself, to a point. And this is better - a better quality of life, as Michelle would tell him.

A text from Nell asks to be picked up and G sends a message back that he’s on his way, perhaps thirty minutes out. He gets back to the hospice grounds in a little less than twenty minutes. Nell had replied she’d wait for him outside. He slows, scanning the benches for her, pulling up near the door and eying the stairs. He’s early and could just park to go in, when he sees her forty yards up, sitting on the curb crying, clutching a beat up red coffee can.

G’s chest contracts. He remembers her showing him the contents of the can - three lego pieces, a clothespin, and a rabbit shaped sponge - everything she owned. The car door snags her attention and she gets to her feet, wiping at her face. His memory fuses with the present and for the first time he sees her whole. He sucks in a breath. “Hey.”

“I, um, thanks for coming.” She takes another futile swipe at her cheeks. “She’s, the medicine, they had to increase the morphine. She doesn’t know… anyway. Thank you. Shit.” She tucks hair behind her ears, swaying a little. G puts a hand under her elbow. She pulls away. “Her family is coming. They’re…it’ll be a couple of days at most. I could use a coffee.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” He’s sorely tempted to pick her up.

“Can’t.” The slight sway again.

“Then coffee it is.” He glances at the can in her arm and decides not to comment. “Easy enough to come by. Let’s go back to the room and get room service.”

Nell nods. “A hot shower would be heaven.”

On the drive back to the hotel, Nell retreats into her thoughts. Cheryl was lucid this morning, talkative, telling foster care nightmare stories as if Nell wasn’t one of the cared for. Nell wondered about the meds when Cheryl told the story of the little girl showing up with nothing but three toys in a coffee can, pointing out the can on the windowsill. Nell doesn’t know if she’s horrified or touched that Cheryl considered the can and its contents a keepsake.

Something on a monitor must’ve changed, because a stream of nurses and finally a doctor came in. As Nell was slowly edged away and calls began to family members, Nell concluded it was time to leave. She snuck a last kiss to Cheryl’s narrow cheek. “You’re a good girl” Cheryl murmured. Nell lifted her coffee can from the sill and went. She suspects even if she returns in the morning, Cheryl might be breathing, but she’s gone. Nell closes her eyes, her fingers tighten on the aluminum can.

“You okay?”

She nods. There’s relief in not being alone. There’s relief she’s with Callen. Someone who knew Cheryl the same way she did.

Once they’re in the hotel room, Callen gently takes the coffee can from Nell. “I was a little jealous of this.” He says.

She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. She kicks off her shoes and shimmies out of her jeans. “Not funny.”

“I was.” He peers into the can, a lopsided smile on his lips.

Nell rests hands on her hips.

“This is a hundred percent more than I had by the time I got to the first placement.” He sets the can on the desk. “By the time I got to my third placement the fuckers had even lost track of my name. You hit the showers. I’ll order up some dinner and see if there’s anything on tv.”

She doesn’t know what to think or say about his lost name. She crosses the space between them, rises to her toes and presses her lips to his, a hand behind his neck.

He pulls back, surprised pleasure on his face.”What’s that for?”

She shrugs. “For lost and found.” She whispers against his mouth. She wants to be lost for a bit and this man is a reservoir of beautiful lost. There’s a storm brewing in his eyes she imagines blowing her away. Her mouth curves in a smile and his mouth crashes against hers, hands splaying on her back, pressing her to him. She slides her arms around his neck and hoists up, gripping his ribs with her knees. He is so close, his skin softer than she ever imagines under her fingers. He kisses her so tenderly and thoroughly heat singes her belly, igniting a needy ache she hasn’t felt before. Her eyes drift closed, her hand gripping the short hair at the back of his head.

His hands grasp her thighs, holding her in place in his arms. Their kiss breaks, breathless. Her lungs fill with his air, then his tongue is in her mouth again. She savors the warmth of his mouth seeping into hers. She feels the unevenness of his breath. Her stomach flutters at his movement and in the space of a blink he cradles her onto the bed. She finds purchase with her elbows, and he crawls up her, his mouth caressing her breastbone, neck, hands stroking up her thighs, fingers slip under the elastic of her panties, the ache at her core increasing.

She falls back, her hands scrabbling at his shirt, shoving the fabric up, tracing over his skin, feeling the muscles of his stomach contract at her touch. She opens her eyes, finding his at the moment his finger slips into her, then a second. Her mouth drops open, a whimper escaping on a sigh. She falls into the darkness of his gaze, his pupils blown wide, rimmed with icy blue. She finds the waistband of his jeans, hand dipping past the elastic of his jockeys and wrapping around the fullness of him. He does something with his fingers that sends an arc of want from her core to the top of her head. She moans, grips him tighter. His fingers slip from her.

“G.” 

His hips lift. His eyes pin her to the bed. “You’re sure?”

She growls. “Yes. You?”

“Yes.” He’s pushing away his pants.

Her hands tug at his shoulders, her knees hug his ribs. “Yes, please.” A hiss. His mouth and hands return to her at the same time, pressing her lips open, gripping her ribs. His weight shifts up and over. His hands come to the back of her thighs pushing her open and the press of him against her, a burning thrust stretching into the ache at her core. More, she thinks, his tongue sliding against hers. Another thrust and thought dissolves into rhythm. Rhythm and desire for this to last forever. But it can’t because she comes apart, shattering delight pulsing through her nervous system like heat lightning. He drives through her orgasm, breath ragged and deep. His urgency snags her senses, chasing her pleasures with his own until his hips stutter and he comes with a roar, spills fire into her, lights her up again.

She feels him shudder, the weight of him on her pelvis satisfyingly heavy. His surrender cascades around her like pure power. Her limbs seem melted to jelly. She couldn’t move if she wanted, though she doesn’t. The comfort of his body covering her feels like home. She kisses his shoulder. He disentangles from her and nuzzles her neck, trails open mouth kisses up her jaw, finds her mouth. He rocks to lie beside her, curling around her. She traces his brow, cheekbones, lips. So close. She smiles. Not as close as he can be. She hitches a leg over his hip. Closer. He watches her face with drowsy interest. Her smile widens. “Well, as long as that’s clear.” She says, voice husky and amused.

“S’pretty clear.” He says.

She’s still half dressed. She wriggles out of shirt and bra, wondering when and how her panties vanished.

“Mmmm.” Lips on breastbone. He palms a breast softly, while kissing the other, finding her nipple. She arches into the touch.

Her attention turns to divesting him of his shirt, sliding her hand up his torso from belly to collarbone. There’s a light dusting of hair from his sternum to his crotch, five atrophic star shaped scars arc from breastbone to shoulder. Two flat shiny oblong scars near his belly show stich marks from a  field dressing. She muses at the softness of skin weathered  and marked by injury. She grazes her fingertips over a dark nipple, kisses the skin between his bellybutton and cock. He’s lovely, she spreads her hands on his chest, crawls up him.

Their eyes meet, his expression brims with affection and desire and something else. Nell searches his gaze, bringing her face close. His hands grasp her sides and slide to her hips. She settles on his belly between his hips, leaning to rest her head on his chest. A hand comes to the back of her neck and fingers caress up into her hair. She closes her eyes, listens to him, smells him. Nice.

G kisses Nell’s hair, enjoys her weight on him. A sense memory of thrusting deep into hot silky wet sends a zing of pleasure from his chest to groin, his cock stirs. He sifts hair through his fingers. She’s humming in the back of her throat, nestled to him. He’s hungry, sleepy and aroused. Hating to move he tilts her chin, wanting to see her. Huge golden brown eyes sparkle with lively interest. Gorgeous. A sliver of fear shoots through him. His hands tighten on her, he catches her mouth in a kiss. She greets his urgency with eagerness, deepening the kiss, stretching on him, her feet gripping his waist. A hand slips him into her and she moans into his mouth. Want ratchets through him, his eyes drop shut and his hips snap up. Her gasp, the clutch of her core around him, fists on his chest. He rolls, tucks her under him, lifts her knee to get deeper yet. She whimpers, contracts, spins apart, delicious heat gushes from her core. It seems for long moments as if there’s nothing but sliding into her, drowning, falling. Pleasure arcs up, through him, into her. He comes on a growl, gives himself over.

Spent and slightly dizzy he’s crushing her beneath him and shifts onto his side. She curls with him as he slips out of her. Her mouth finds his and she’s kissing him, hand cups his face. Her breath is sharp and ragged, matching his. She chuckles, the vibration of her stomach on his. He catches it, laughs.

His awareness sharpens. He doesn’t recall flying past clarity while making love before and a lot of rhetoric about love suddenly makes sense.

“You okay?” Nell traces a finger over his brow and he realizes he frowned.

“Yeah, I uh, I haven’t…” The heat rises from his chest to his cheeks in a blush. Her eyes widen. He smiles. “I’ve never…”

“Bullshit.” She interrupts.

“Had unprotected sex.” He admits.

“Oh.” She blinks.

“We’re gonna need some kind of birth control strategy.”

She touches the underside of her arm below her armpit. “We have one. Two more years on my implant. You’re serious. Are we talking condoms here?”

He nods.

“Wow.” She grins. “How was it?”

He tugs her closer. “Unbelievable perfection. I can’t even… don’t want to ever not be in you. Come’ere.” He nuzzles her neck, bites lightly. “Good gods, woman.”

Being his first anything has never crossed Nell’s mind. She’d sometimes predicted the long slide into bed with him and was furiously scared their shared past would make this impossible. It might still. Though he’s deliciously everywhere present at the moment, the future retreating into the distance. She fixes him with an assessing stare.

G stills, bringing his focus to her. “Hmmm?”

“You here is good.” Not exactly what she’s feeling, but close.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Just good?”

She wrinkles her nose, wishing anything more demonstrative was within reach. He’d said perfection, which has to be an exaggeration. But his mouth slips over her collarbone, lips catching her nipple, and now his hand, fingers between her thighs insisting. Surely not, she thinks. He curls his finger and her legs fall open, a shower of delight zinging up from her center.  “Really, very good.”  She amends.

It takes a hot shower to ease Nell’s over sensitive skin after two hours of sex. She lathers up, her entire body feeling shiny from G’s touch. He’s by turns intense and silly in bed, a quick study, noticing what pleased her, thorough in his exploration of her body. She’s pretty sure every centimeter of her has been touched, licked, examined. His undivided attention scalded along her surfaces, fathoming depths with occasional soundings. She’s exhausted and exhilarated at the same time, a fizzy feeling just barely within control.

She’s starving. She missed lunch in her hurry to escape the hospice. She leaves the shower and grabs a towel on her way to the room. She leaves wet footprints on the carpet as she towels off, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. G’s sprawled on the wrecked bed. He’s pulled on sweatpants, lying on his stomach, his laptop open in front of him. He looks up, recognition and appreciation in his eyes. He’s still here. Of course. Of course. She hiccups. “Did you order some food?”

“I did.”

Okay. She returns to the bathroom and finishes drying. She tugs on a t shirt and shorts, massages conditioner into her hair. She takes a jar of lotion into the room and climbs onto the bed with G. “Mind if I turn on the tv?”

“Go ahead.” He’s absorbed in his screen.

She glances over his shoulder. Email. She aims the remote and finds the Antiques Roadshow. She slathers lotion into her skin from the toes up and watches one of the Keno brothers evaluate a federal era chest of drawers.

G rolls over and presses his face to her calf. “You smell good.”

“Sandalwood.” She says.

“Myrrh.” He says.

Her brows lift. “That, too.” She buys the lotion from a woman who mixes the scent to order.

He kisses her calf. “Great smell.” He rolls onto his back. “Turns out there was a kid over at UCLA storing enough shit to blow up a building. Took the guys half the day to track him, and he says he’s storing it for one of his professors. It’s gonna be a shit show in the morning.” He stretches.

“We should go back. Join the fun.”

His gaze snaps around to her. “You’re not going back to see Cheryl?”

Nell shakes her head. “No point. She’s gone. I don’t know her family. They think of me as a pesky foster. I can live without that.”

“There’s probably a red-eye we can catch after we eat.”

“I’d rather sleep and go in the morning.” She says.

Callen doesn’t sleep much, so it often doesn’t occur to him as a serious pastime. Although sleeping with Nell is an improvement over his other sleep options. The bed’s a mess of tossed linen, smelling comfortably of sex. “I'd hate to miss the take down.”

“I’m sure you would. But, you’d hate missing morning sex even more.” She says.

He grins. “Indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

Michelle Hanna invites the team over for a late dinner when their case extends past normal quitting time. Milo arrives first, bringing beer and wine. A favorite guest with the Hanna girls, Milo sits with them while they eat, discussing volleyball. Michelle orders bar-b-q for delivery, then perches on a barstool to quiz Milo about G and Nell. Milo speculates the relationship is heading for romantic entanglement, citing longstanding mutual infatuation.

“What I don’t know,” he concludes, “is whether either of them has enough experience with trust to make anything work. Glory knows they deserve each other.”

“I can’t imagine anyone having enough resilience to deal with him,” Michelle says.

“Nell’s too resilient for her own good, that’s not what I’m worried about,” Milo says. “They’re both about as independent as humans come. As far as I know, neither one has sustained any relationship over time.” He begins helping the little girls take dishes to the sink.

“Callen’s managed a few. There’s Hetty, Jethro, and Sam.” 

“There’s also you and the girls,” Milo adds.

“And Sam’s mom. Bernetta thinks of him as an extra son." 

“Well, pardon me. He’s a regular family man and I didn’t know it.”

Michelle laughs. “Okay, I get your point though. I don’t really know about Nell.”

“She’s less connected than he is. She’s probably just as angry, but far better at sublimation.” Milo says.

The front door opens and Marty comes in with three bags of food, having met the delivery boy on the stoop. “Dinner has arrived folks.” He puts the bags on the island counter and glances around. “Where is everybody?”

“On their way.” Michelle turns her attention to the food. 

Marty gets a beer from the refrigerator and before he has the cap off, G and Nell come in. G sweeps Maya Hanna up in a hug. Milo engulfs Nell in an embrace. Sam and Eric come in with Kensi and the crew serves up dinner and conversation. The little girls bring coloring books and markers into the family room and set up on the coffee table while the adults perch around the room with plates of food on their knees.

The Hanna home started as a 1940’s Spanish bungalow, complete with a courtyard in the center of the house. The family room borders the courtyard where the addition of a glass wall sliding open brings the outside in. Over the years, Sam also added a master suite and a guest suite, along with a pool. The guest suite is for his mother, who to date refuses to move.

For a brief time, the additions of Matt and Joelle to the group made conversation about anything work related impossible. Milo and Michelle were grandfathered into security clearance long past and now conversation turns on the case they worked this afternoon. G and Nell arrived at OSP just as UCLA attorneys squared off with the NSA. They’d watched a couple of interrogations. By the day’s end, the FBI and NSA were fighting over custody of the suspects and Hetty bowed OSP out of further proceedings. Law enforcement turf war stories get everyone reminiscing and laughing.

The natural grouping of the team puts Nell with Eric, Milo, and Marty while G, Sam, Kensi and Michelle round out the other group. Tonight is no different. When side conversations emerge, they fall into habitual patterns. Nell and Eric listen to Marty and Milo discuss an LAPD investigation into money laundering. The case isn’t a homicide investigation and Milo and Marty only know what they hear around the department. Eric and Nell helped with surveillance and have their own theories about who’s involved. All four of them expect a homicide to occur any time and the LAPD brass are concerned about a possible international aspect of the case. Eventually, the case may land on one or more them.

As dinner ends, Michelle and G supervise baths and bedtime upstairs. Kensi comes over and sits on the arm of Marty’s chair. Sam joins the conversation, too, and the talk turns to more generalized speculation about organized crime. 

When G comes back he lounges on the back of Nell’s armchair. No one in the room is oblivious to his hand on her shoulder. All afternoon Nell has been acutely aware of the curiosity about her and G percolating around the group. Once or twice she felt Kensi or Eric on the verge of asking. Nell doesn’t mind the attention, but it’s far different from her accustomed role as an afterthought. 

Nell gives in to the unasked questions by leaning back into G arms and stretching up to kiss him under the chin. G answers by kissing her mouth, his kiss gentle and thorough. The tenderness leaves her feeling liquid and, unexpectedly, cherished.  She twines her hand with his on her shoulder and he slides down into the chair. Marty’s analysis of the Ortega family’s part in the LA drug trade slows to a halt as Nell wriggles onto G’s lap.

Michelle comes in the room and stops at the sight of G and Nell in the armchair. She rests her hands on her hips and smiles. “What did I just miss?” 

“G and Nell kissing.” Marty offers.

“Really?” Michelle says.

“If you want kissing, more can be arranged,” G says.

“No,” Sam says. “Not necessary.”

Nell laughs. 

“I don’t know,” Kensi says with mock deliberation. “Are you guys going to be super demonstrative? What exactly is going on between you?” 

“Well,” Nell leans forward, her voice dropping to confidential. “There’s a lot to work out. But, we did start having sex last night and that was…” 

“Whoa.” 

“TMI.” 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

“Urgh.” 

“Nell.” 

The five guys speak at once, getting to their feet. Kensi and Nell are both uprighted when the men beneath them stand. Nell moves closer to Kensi. “Really amazing, so yeah, we’re gonna try this.” She finishes. 

“There are dishes that need washing,” Sam says. “G, start loading the dishwasher. Marty, you’re on pots and pans.”

“I’ll dry,” Eric adds, scooting ahead of them into the kitchen. “Milo can get the counters and table.”

G brushes past Nell. “Nicely done. Be sparing with details, please.” He says near her ear. Their eyes meet and she’s overwhelmed with how clearly he sees her. He smiles, puts a hand at the back of her neck and touches his mouth to hers.

Sam groans. G lifts his head from Nell and cuffs Sam lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, we all know the rest of you are having great sex. Get past it.”

“Knowing and discussing are two different things.” Sam grumbles, moving toward the kitchen. “Get away from her and get your ass in here.” Amid laughter, the guys head to the kitchen.

Kensi sidles up to Nell. “I want details.” She says.

“Yes, indeed.” Michelle agrees, settling on the couch and patting the cushion beside her. Nell crosses her legs on the couch while Kensi sprawls on the floor.

“First off, how did you two find out about the past thing?” Kensi asks.

Nell goes back to the beginning and the box of mementos from Cheryl. To provide context she backtracks a little more to explain Cheryl and her foster home. Then prompted by Michelle, Nell backtracks further. Instead of any in depth discussion about sex with Callen, they end up talking through how Nell ended up in foster care. From there they discuss the seeming relationship between childhood loss and law enforcement, comparing the histories of various team members. Nell puts forth her observation that kids who grow up with a lot of loss have two traits that make good cops: high suspicion and issues with fairness. Michelle mentions having had similar thoughts, but nothing so concise. Kensi comments points out concise is kinda Nell’s job. Michelle and Kensi shift to talking about how all of them fell in love with each other and how much easier to keep a relationship with someone who understands the work and the risks.

Kensi taps Nell with her foot. “Tired?”

Nell nods. “Long day.” Nell finds the level of disclosure exhausting. She knows it had to happen if trust within the team is going to remain high, but she knows it in a dry intellectual sort of way. Callen’s emotional wellbeing is intrinsic to the team’s functioning. Though she senses some protectiveness on her behalf, she knows Callen is the team keystone. All the talking leaves her existentially exhausted. She yawns.

“You know, if you guys break up, it’s gonna be a mess.” Kensi says.

Nell gives her a sharp look. “Well, at least we’re not partners.”

“I know. I know. That’s what I mean. I worry about what will happen with Marty all the time.” Kensi unfurls long legs and stretches. “And, at least I’m not already pissed at him for leaving me once.”

“Touché.” Nell chuckles. She gets her feet on the floor.

They find the guys on the back porch, drinking beer and talking about DEA policies. Callen reclines on a lounge chair, arms behind his head, feet crossed at the ankles. Nell sinks onto him and closes her eyes. She’s distracted from the conversation by the sound of his voice through his chest and the relief of not having to say anything.

Callen wraps his arms around Nell and feels her even out in his arms, as if she’s turning her volume down. He knows the instant she falls asleep. Though it’s still early for this crew, he and Nell have been in motion for the past sixteen hours. He’s tired, if not sleepy. Tomorrow they’ll start the work for the undercover op in earnest. There’s no real hurry, more the need to perfect the covers and orchestrate a well planned operation. Arms dealers are an easily spooked lot. The little homework he’s already done has shown this group to be especially mercenary, which never bodes well. They’re not tied to any ethic one could exploit.

“Hey.” Marty.

G’s attention snaps back to the present. “Hmmmph?”

“You guys should head out.” Marty gestures toward G and Nell with his beer bottle.

“Yeah.” G glances down at Nell’s face, her expression slack and peaceful in sleep. Given how soundly he’s seen her sleep, he could probably get up and carry her to the car without waking her. He’s not entirely sure she’d appreciate that, though. “Nell.” He says next to her ear. She shifts. “Nell.” She scrunches her face against the idea of getting up. He laughs. “Come on, none of that.” He jostles her by sitting up and she unwinds. “Time to go.”

Nell nods, rubs her face. “Good idea.” She climbs off him and shakes herself awake.

After a round of goodnights, G and Nell make their way to the Hanna’s front walk. He catches her hand, weaving his fingers between hers in a gesture that feels both old and new. The air is hot and dry even as the sky grows dark. In the car, Nell curls in the deep leather seat. When G gets in, she rests her calves on the center console, tucking bared feet under his arm against his ribs.

Reclining the seat slightly, she nestles into a comfortable position and by the time they’re on the highway, she’s back to sleeping. He wonders what she’s retreating from at the moment. Tired is a real possibility, though he’s seen her get by on less sleep. It’d never occurred to him until this morning on the plane, how little risk there was being with someone in a romance built on his legends instead of on him. The part of him feeling wrung out now has to do with the intensity of so much intimacy.

During his stint in the CIA G became accustomed to a kind of nomadic existence, proud of near invisibility and needing really nothing to survive. His ability to vanish generally serves him well. He doesn’t want to be someone else in relationship to Nell. He’s got no idea how to do that while they’re undercover or how their covers will affect their real relationship. This sliver of a real relationship they’ve carved out in this tiny bit of time.

Caught up in his thoughts, he drives home more or less on autopilot. When she wakes Nell squints at his house, then glares at him. He shrugs. He’s too tired to sort out another destination for the night. Nor is he interested in trying to figure what the turf issue is since Nell doesn’t have a place at all.

Pleased to be alone with her for the first time since just past dawn, he pulls her to him. “Hi there.” He kisses her. 

Nell chuckles, takes the kiss deeper, resting on the passenger side door of the Mercedes. “One day I want to make love with you in this car.” She says. “Too tired right now, but soon.”

G glances over his shoulder into the back seat. “We can do that.” For no good reason he’s wanted to pick her up for the last three days and now he gives in to temptation and takes her feet from under her in a single move, cradling her to his chest. She gasps and tightens her grip around his neck. “I got you.” He says into her hair.

“I know.”

He carries her up the walk. At the door he moves to put her down, but she clings, grips his shoulders and shifts until her knees hug his ribs, her feet anchored on the waistband of his jeans, bringing them face-to-face. Laughing, he rests his back on the door, puts an arm under the inviting curve of her butt and fishes keys from his pocket. She squirms, warmth brushes his belly, which he realizes with a swift intake of breath has to be the crotch of her panties pressing against him. She’s a captivating armful. He gets the key in the lock. His fingers slide under the elastic of her panties finding hot, slick, wet. “Fuck.” On a whisper. Nell moans, quaking. Damn it. Using the last of his concentration he manages unlocking and opening the door.

Two steps take them inside and up against the entry wall. Pinning her, he captures her mouth in a crushing kiss. Tongues slip together. Her voice vibrates in his throat. Want zips though, an electrical current, lighting him up. He calculates from here to the bedroom.

Balanced between his chest and the wall she reaches under to unbutton his jeans, shoving fabric away with her feet until gravity sends his pants to the floor. His cock touches slippery warmth and aches. Thoughts blurring, he nudges her panties aside, thrusting hard and fast up into hot clenching dripping pleasure. She ripples and arches, contracting hard, coming apart, his name on her lips. He chases her with urgent desire, up, up and spilling up, into her, through her. For moment of sparkling clenching fusion he cannot breathe or think.

“G.” A murmur. Then she’s kissing him again, deep and warm. “Oh gods, good. Thank you for that.” She says on a ragged breath.

Miraculously he’s still standing, still holding her. Small quivers of nerves lit with delight. He takes a breath. He slips out of her, reluctance in every muscle. He nuzzles her neck, lowers her to the floor. “You." 

“Yeah?”

He touches his forehead to hers. “Yeah. You.” There’s nothing but falling into her fathomless gaze and fire ebbing in his veins. Bit by bit his senses resettle. He watches her tongue dart out, wetting her lips. He kisses her, opening her mouth, drinking her, wants to brand her, stay inside her. They part in a series of gentle nips and kisses. The hitch in her breath plucks a string near his belly.

Honestly, he thinks, amazing. He registers her skirt brushing his thighs. He hitches up his pants.

The front door stands open and G stares at it for a long moment. He just doesn’t lose track of his surroundings like this. He scrubs his head, steps to close and lock the door. He looks back at Nell. She’s adorable, rumpled, small smile on her lips, pleasure dances in her eyes, tugging at the waistband of her skirt.

“I’m, uh, dripping. Bathroom. One sec.” Nell heads down the hallway.

G follows down the dark hallway. Sex without a condom is wet, he thinks. Wetter. While he’s not dripping, he’s sticky in all the right places. Imagining his semen leaking down between her thighs pushes a button he didn’t know he had, makes him want to bite her.

She flips the light on in his bedroom. “Oh. Wow.”

“What?”

“You got a bed.”

“Uh huh.” He joins her in the doorway. A thick mattress rests on a very pretty teak platform. The linens are pale green, under a white down quilt. It doesn’t seem polite to have such possessive feelings about a person, seems kinda primal, physical like hunger, like he can’t help himself.

“Didn’t I see your bedroll in the living room?” Nell asks.

G rubs a hand over his head as if the gesture will generate meaningful thoughts. “I sometimes sleep in here, sometimes in there.”

Nell trails fingers across the quilt on her way to the master bath. When she returns a moment later, G still stands in the door. She tilts her head. “I imagine the acquisition of a bed was much appreciated by … guests.” She grins.

How’s she thinking up big words, he wonders. He shakes his head. “No one’s been in the bed except me.” He says. “And now, you.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t bring people home.” He says.

“You stayed with a foster family here, right?”

He nods. “They were okay.”

“Do they have any idea what happened to you? Or is living here some strange gesture just for you?”

“Shit. Can we not do this when my brains are banged loose?” He comes to the bedside and ruffles her hair. He sighs. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.” He kisses her lightly.

“I really, really like the idea of you with your brains banged loose.” She kisses his chin.

G peels off clothes, heads to the bathroom. When he comes back after a quick scratch around the teeth, the room is dark. Nell’s burrowed into the sheets and pillows. He slides into bed. The covers shift, he senses her move. She tucks up under his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He chuffs, drops a kiss on her forehead. “Go to sleep before you say something else brutally honest.”

“Mmmm. Okay.” She turns over, curving her back to his side. She yawns, stretches, curls around a pillow.

G turns toward her, his face in her hair. When she drifts into sleep, per instructions, it occurs to him again that her sleeping is reflexive in some self-protective way he’s not completely comfortable with. He tugs her closer. Whether he sleeps or not he’s better off with a reasonable amount of rest. He takes a moment to relax, noting his body feels wonderful, alive and content. He closes his eyes and thinks about Nell.

In addition to being who he thought she was, she is recognizably the small person he met all those years ago. She’s brilliant and beautiful. Her poise is legendary within NCIS, as are her skills. He’s watched her train for a possible field agent position. She’s quick and well coordinated. She handles a gun well on the range, but she’s not a killer. She’s cautious to the point of suspicion.

Despite Hetty’s consternation, he hesitates to take Nell in the field, but some of that is his distracting impulse to protect her. She makes an easy and obvious target, which when she’s fully trained will be an asset but currently remains a liability. Though, when she’s partnered with Marty they have a solid cop chemistry. The way things are going with Marty and Kensi…

He flashes on a memory of Nell as a very little person with short pigtails sticking up like a cartoon character, attacking an eleven year old bully of a girl who’d taken something from her. He’d plucked her off the kid, but not before she did some damage. She is all sharp edges, disguised in a small and cute package. He wants to know what happened to her on the street.

Making love with her is intoxicating. He has no idea how in the hell he’s gonna keep his head in the game. New territory all around. He leans over onto his back again and in her sleep Nell rolls with him, her arm slipping across his chest, her face pressed to his side. Her leg slides over his and there’s something so lovely about her near. He wants this with her. Which means they both get home safe every damn day. He can do that.

~

Nell mock glares at Arkady Kolcheck across the central room in the boathouse, where they’ve set up working space. The past week working with Kolcheck on the details of the covers, the resources for the mission, and trying to pry loose information about Kolcheck’s extensive resources has been both irritating and fun. She suspects he’s lying about how he knows this group of Russian mercenaries. She can track back through ancient KGB records and find out. It would require either clearance to hack the FSB, or the will to hack them anyway. And, she’ll do it if she can’t shake something believable out of Kolcheck in the next two days. But, the op will be exponentially safer if she can get Kolcheck to play nice. She calculates her last effort to break into his confidence. “Batya.” She says.

Kolcheck’s head snaps around. Calling him ‘dad’ in Russian worked to soften his gaze.

She continues speaking in Russian, voice pitched low. “I think you’ve known some of these mercenaries for a very long time. That perhaps you served in the KGB with them, or the army. That you have history. I suspect you have us involved, have DGSI involved as a distraction from something else.”

Kolcheck’s hooded blue eyes assess her.

Nell raises her brows. “Oh I do believe there’s intel to be gained, perhaps even some kind of trafficking to apprehend. What I don’t believe is your investment for nothing.” She swings her foot idly, keeps her tone friendly. “What I don’t want is for your subterfuge to put any of us in unnecessary danger.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Kolcheck asks. He sprawls back in the swivel chair his posture open and slightly insolent.

“I’m not sure.” Nell gauges him to be at his most threatening and smiles. This is the only moment she’ll have. “Consider this: if I know everything I can choose to help. If I don’t know, I can choose to stop you.”

His expression shifts to quizzical. “How?” The challenge in his voice is quite quiet.

Nell crosses her legs and arms, resting her wrists on her knees, making herself both small and contained. “I already know your daughter is still alive. I saw her in the Paris house three days ago. What are you doing? What do you need?”

The silence lingers between them for a long time. Kolcheck doesn’t take his eyes off her, but she doubts he’s seeing her. He’s thinking. When he refocuses, the threat is gone. “Hackers.” He says, mild disgust in his tone. “I should have known.”

She nods.

“What I tell you, you tell Callen.”

She nods.

“Okay. I will tell you both. But, not here. Dinner tonight. Lucques. I have a reservation for eight o’clock.” Kolcheck sits up again, bracing hands on his thighs before standing. He tilts his head at Nell with approval. “Good girl. Here is something you didn’t know. I made a promise to keep them both alive, my daughter and his son. I keep my promises.”

“Then I won’t worry.” Nell rises from the sofa and crosses the room. She rises on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. She meets his gaze for a long moment, allowing him to see her appreciation. She goes back to the workstation and her keyboard. There’s more work to do with the French intelligence services before they leave on Sunday. 

Nell works for another hour before wandering down the stairs to find G. She notes Sam at his desk on her way past the bullpen. In the armory, G sits at the desk filling out paperwork. “We need to talk.” She says.

“Okay.” G continues a string of numbers, adds his initials. He glances up, must see something in her face and stills. “What?”

“This probably isn’t the very best place.” She says. Locations in OSP free from surveillance are very few. Part of her wants a record of this conversation to exist in space. Just in case. Her mouth tightens. She’ll ask him. If he agrees they can have the conversation again. “Take a walk?”

“Okay.” He says. It takes him a moment to order the paper on the desk under a small selection of gear. Once that’s done he follows.

They end up at the Starbucks, cups of tea latte in hand, sitting at an outdoor table. 

“Last time we did this was interesting.” G says. His flirtation dies on his lips when he sees Nell’s expression.

“I hacked into the security system at Akady’s Paris flat a couple days ago.” Nell says. “There was a blonde woman there, about your age, I ran her through facial rec. She comes up as Anna Chernoff, same birthdate, place of birth, as Gemma Kolcheck. There’s a death certificate for Anna Chernoff the year before Gemma died. His daughter is still alive.” G starts to speak, but Nell puts a hand up. She sips from her cup. “He’s got some other stake in this, G. I’m sure of it. I called him on it earlier. He won’t say anything in the building, but we’re having dinner with him tonight. He says he’ll tell us what’s going on.”

“I’m gonna throttle him.” G growls.

Nell watches him think. His feelings about Kolcheck are messy. She taps his hand to get his attention. “Listen. G, listen." 

It takes a minute for him to stop fuming. He huffs irritation then stills. “What is he up to?”

“I don’t know. My guess is something to do with whatever past he’s tangled up in around the breakup of the union. I can’t think of much he’d be willing to take on the risks of returning to Europe for, putting his name back out there.” She shakes her head, flips hair back over her shoulder. “But whatever it is, there’s a good chance this will be tangled up with your family, G. I don’t think we should go in with him blind.”

“Do you think whatever he’s into involves these mercs?” G’s attention sharpens considerably.

“We’ll find out tonight.” She tightens her hand on his. “G. If this does involve your family, what do you want to do? Trust him? I think he’ll tell us, but only if we agree to secrecy.”

“And you don’t want to find yourself suddenly off the reservation without warning?”

“I’d rather not have to make that choice in the heat of the moment.” She lifts a shoulder.

“I have no idea what’s going to happen.” G says. “Probably better if we get comfortable with flow.”

Nell doesn’t like flow. Well, that’s not quite accurate. She likes the idea. She understands the gift of improvisation. She just likes control more. A lot more. “If we can talk to each other all the time, then okay.” She says.

“I doubt that’s possible. But we can make sure we can find each other. The NSA already has an identity implant request on us, I suspect it’ll be a tracker of some sort.”

Nell nods. “I saw that, I might be able to rig a hack so we can find each other with it.”

“And we’ll carry redundancy with pocket finders and sat phones.” He says. “There’s some specific reason you think this has anything to do with my family?”

“Arkady said something about a promise he made to keep you alive. I can only imagine he made that promise to your father. 

Blue eyes sizzle again with a combination of fury and longing. Nell gives him the privacy of looking away. He wants to know his father, suspects Arkady knows something he needs to know. She’s sure he’s right. If she’s guessing, Arkady is protecting G. Watching over him. There are things that if G knows put him in danger. She wonders if she’d prefer him safe than happy. Wants both. She envies his assurance of his parent’s love and protection, so plainly extending through the years and miles past death to keep him safe.

“Whatever we learn tonight, I don’t like the idea of going into this without anyone on this side knowing what we’re up against.” She says. “Is there anything you want me to look into before dinner?”

“My father was arrested and sent to the gulag. There’s no record of him ever being there, escaping or dying.”

“Which seems unlikely.” Nell says. “I can’t do the kind of search you need from OSP, G. But, with some clean equipment I can do it. Not this afternoon, though.”

“Should’ve asked you to look for him a long time ago.”

“Or, I should’ve offered.”

They gaze at one another, smiles widening slowly. There are moments she feels she hears him thinking. Other moments he doesn’t even feel present, though she can touch him. “It’s always been hard with you.” She says. She reaches across the table and puts a finger between his brows. “I see you. And that’s not what you wanted.”

“How come I didn’t see you?”

“You did, and then you looked away.” She shrugs, rolls her cup in her hands. Her native suspicion flares. He searches for his history compulsively. She’s never been enough to hold his attention. She leans forward. “G, if something happens, if we can find your father, I’m all in. Until you leave. When you choose, you don’t choose me. When you leave, I’m out.”

“Fair enough. I won’t. But, that’s fair.”

She expected him to protest, to deny. She’s relieved when he doesn’t. He’s less guarded than she’s ever known him. But, she’s not going to speculate on what that means. “As long as that’s clear.”

~

Akady is at the table when G and Nell arrive at Lucques. A waiter materializes to pour glasses of white wine as they’re seated. Nell spreads the linen napkin in her lap and reaches for the goblet. The wine is excellent. Elegant, a scent of melon and a lovely mineral finish. She grins. “Nice choice.” She takes another sip, breathing in the scents. 

Arkady waves an inviting hand. “Glad you could join me.” 

“Talk.” G intones.

Arkady and Nell glance at one another. Arkady’s mouth tightens. “Patience. Have wine. Have some food. There’s no hurry. Friends having dinner.” 

Nell opens the menu, leaving the men to glare at each other. Everything on the menu looks scrumptious and she makes a note to come back. She leans on G’s shoulder and points to a menu item. “Sounds like you. 

“The pork chop.” Arkady says, dreamy tones in his voice. “I always intend to get something new, then I worry I may not have the pork chop again.” He sighs dramatically.

Starters of asparagus and artichoke arrive, the main courses are ordered. Nell dips an asparagus tip in buttery sauce, her gaze bouncing between the men glaring at each other. She chews thoughtfully, a small moan of pleasure escaping. G glances over. She shrugs. “What? It’s really good.”

“True.” Arkady relaxes and picks up his fork. He shifts his attention to Nell. “You, young lady are quite the talent. I didn’t know this. When Henrietta insisted on you for this operation I was skeptical.”

Nell raises a brow.

“I thought he might figure me out once we got to France and began talking with the Sarloffs.” Arkady points to G with an artichoke heart on his fork. He pops the heart into his mouth. He chews and swallows. “Maybe I wasn’t careful enough of you, though.”

“Maybe I’m just that good.” Nell says.

“Maybe.” Arkady laughs. “I like you.” He looks at G. “I like her.”

“I like her, too.” G says. “You stay away from her.”

Nell ignores him. “I’m very curious about why you’ve asked me to use your daughter’s name for my cover, when your daughter is alive and well in Paris.”

“Sentimental.” Arkady says. “That is all. The man who leads this group of mercenaries is the man who betrayed Nikita. If possible, I will kill him.”

Nell stares, holding her goblet suspended between her plate and her mouth.  Beside her, G swallows hard. “Well, shit.” He says. “Don’t mince words.”

“I was going to tell you once we’ve left. But, you are too smart for your own good.” Arkady says to Nell.

Nell sets her glass down. “You’re disguising a hit as an arms deal.” She muses. “Not bad. That could work. And if it doesn’t, you have two governments in line to finish the job for you.”

“You have a delightfully tactical mind, my sweet.” Arkady grins. “I see why you like her.” He adds to G.

“And you believe G has a right to be part of avenging his father. So you’ve roped us into this.” Nell finishes her thought.

“Not us. Me.” G says. “This isn’t your fight.”

“No. But you both stand a much better chance at walking away from this with my help.” She says. She stills G’s reply with a hand on his arm. She levels a steely gaze at Arkady. “I need a lot more information, Batya. Every last detail, before we leave.” Her curiosity piqued, Nell can think of several potential pitfalls, the 25 years between Kolcheck’s last assassination and this one not least of them. She knows G’s father helped hundreds, if not thousands, of refuges escape Russia to have lives in the west. He was a good guy. May still be. That engenders loyalty. She gets the fierceness with which both Kolcheck and G will approach the task. Kolcheck needs revenge and G needs answers. She may be the only one with a level head, unless Kolcheck’s daughter is also part of the plan. “What part of this is Anna?”

Arkady rolls his eyes, mid-bite. He waves his fork for her to wait, chews, swallows. “You miss nothing. A true asset. Anna is watching my back. When you saw her in Paris she was installing a secondary security system. She’ll be furious you were hacked into the primary system while she was there and she didn’t catch you.”

“Is she tech or muscle?” Nell asks.

“She can do both, but she’s better with a gun.” There’s pride in Arkady’s expression, though his tone is matter-of-fact.

G’s still. Nell feels anger coming off him waves. He’s so angry other patrons look concerned and a waiter is hovering. Nell tightens her hand on his arm, turning to face him. His gaze comes to her. She waits. She tugs. He focuses, sees her. Violence churns in his stormy blue gaze. She’s seen it before. She waits. The anger recedes from his surfaces, a deliberate effort. She tightens her fingers until they dig into his arm. His muscles uncoil under her hand. “Good, yes?” She says. He’s not, but he’s no longer homicidal either. She cups his cheek and kisses him lightly. With the exception of a few extra vigilant women, who are concerned for her safety, the atmosphere around their table fades. She puts the women at ease by plucking a shrimp from his plate and popping it in her mouth. She keeps her hand on G as she turns back to Arkady.

“You are lovers.” Arkady’s grinning. “I wondered. That’s marvelous. Perhaps you can keep him from killing me.”

Nell ignores the comment. “When can I begin coordinating with Anna?”Arkady’s gaze narrows. While he thinks about her request he eats. Nell wants to pester, but knows it wouldn’t work. She doesn’t have to know right this second. They have another week before they leave for Paris and possibly a month or two before anything’s likely to happen. She wonders how much of this Hetty knows or suspects. She’ll cross that bridge tomorrow.

“I don’t know.” Arkady admits slowly. “That was not part of the plans.”

“Neither was my finding her. Yet, here we are.”

“Yes, here we are in one of the world’s finest restaurants. We can manage details some other time. Eat.” Arkady gestures with his fork at G, who hasn’t touched a bite in three minutes.

 “You want to call her. Okay.” Nell sighs. “If you don’t want to have these conversations at OSP, perhaps we should move to your house.”

“No. I have too much surveillance. I don’t want to risk it.” Arkady shakes his head. “It is, of course, fine for you to begin your covers at the house. You are welcome. But, they know where I live. We will do best to do this planning in public as best we can.”

Spies, Nell thinks. Careful is one thing, paranoid another. “You don’t have any audio in your set up. It’ll just look like we’re planning the move to Paris.”

Arkady is still shaking his head. “No.”

“He’s right.” G says. Nell and Arkady look at him. He’s still glaring at Arkady, but the heat has reduced to a simmer. “Where are we with the French?”

“NSA is handling the coordination with DGSI, I’ve seen updates that look like everything’s going smoothly. DGSI has wanted these guys off the streets for two years now. They’ seem happy for the help.” Nell says.

G nods once. “We’ll have the most privacy from any kind of covert surveillance on the plane. Unless they’re following you?”

“No. At least not yet.” Arkady says. “I will talk to Anna tonight before I get home. We can proceed from there.”

They finish dinner in relative silence, each caught in their own thoughts about the immediate future. Nell muses over the fact Arkady’s shenanigans are what’s finally putting her feet on the ground in the field. And of course it’s illegal. Ish. While she thinks about how to get all this on her resume, Nell becomes aware both men are thinking about her. Arkady seems to be contemplating her with approval, though she doesn’t know him well enough to figure out the nuances of that. G wants to jettison her from the op.

The waiter materializes at the table with dessert menus and Nell tells him yes, she’s having dessert. G tilts his head. She points. “I’ll have the tiramisu and coffee, please.” She tells the waiter.

Arkady chuckles, ordering sorbet.

G orders coffee. “Dessert?” He asks.

“I sure as hell deserve dessert.” Nell says.

“Yes. You do.” Arkady says.

G sighs.

The tiramisu and the coffee are exceptional. The small group parts ways at the door with plans to have lunch tomorrow. Nell grips G’s arm at the elbow as they turn towards his car. “Did not think he was orchestrating a hit.” She says.

He covers her hand with his, his thumb stroking along her wrist. “Don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Don’t want any of us to get hurt.” She agrees. “We need to stop at the Best Buy on the way home.”


	4. Chapter 4

Paris is an embarrassment of riches. The kind of riches Nell and G only visit during work or in the imagination. Arkady’s Paris flat is wretched in its excess; two floors overstuffed with plush, gilded, comfort. Yet, two weeks in the flat felt like living in a petri dish. The always watchful eyes of Kolcheck pére, fille, et securité was insanely invasive, a bit like spending every waking and sleeping hour at work. In fact, exactly like that. No amount of idle sight seeing accented with amazing meals lightened the scrutiny.

The strangeness of being nestled into a family of sorts is cloyingly uncomfortable and feels exposed, like clothes two sizes too small. Nothing is happening with their Russian contacts and nothing seems likely to happen. With the promise of returning in a few days, Nell and G decamp to a hotel for a break. Phones on, of course. Shedding their legends with each mile, they catch a cab into the center of the city of lights, register in the hotel with the spare identities each brought with them. They’re findable, but just barely.

Nell stands at the window of the top floor penthouse staring out at endless necklaces of lights above and below as far as she can see. Her smile widens, shoulders squaring into the sense of liberation. Behind her the shower water cuts off and a moment later G comes out of the bathroom accompanied by a puff of steam, the reflection of the bathroom lights adding to the display in the window before her. She watches his reflection walk toward her, a towel low around his hips, bare feet silent on the carpet. He doesn’t stop until he is flush behind her, arms coming around her waist face snug against her neck. She chuckles, leans back. The damp from his chest seeps through her t-shirt, hot.

“Gorgeous.” He says.

“It is.”

“You are.”

A ripple of heat flows up through her chest. She’s still amazed by his admiration when they are alone. His attention has a searing quality not present when they are in company, incognito, undercover. His mouth, hot breath and soft lips at the base of her neck halts her train of thought. She moves her head to look at him, but he nuzzles the side of her face, faces her forward. His hands tighten at her waist and bring her backside to his pelvis where she feels the nudge of his erection insistent through the towel, through her panties, against her bottom. She instinctively moves to turn to him, her entire body yearning. He holds her fast in place, sending a zing of anticipation through her.

They do not seem able to make love as Gemma and Gavril. Ever. Gemma and Gavril are affectionate and flirtatious. Despite knowing it’s best to stay in character while undercover, when passion flares, it’s between Nell and G, their legends slipping away into ether. Trying to come back is confusing and frustrating. Love making at the Kolcheck flat is a thorny prospect they haven’t fully sorted through. G’s hands sliding up under her t-shirt and covering her breasts rucks the fabric up under her chin, causes her back to arch, startles her with her own reflection in the window, exposed, aroused. Good gods. Her breath leaves her in a gasp. Her eyes drop shut, hands slap the window for balance as she pushes into his caresses. He’d catch her, but she wants to be upright, to hold onto something.

G tugs the shirt up over Nell’s head, watches the silvery shimmer of her reflection in the window. She is lovely. A delicate blush tints her skin, her eyes are closed, and he wants her. Wants to take her. Wants to mark her, taste her, make an excursion into her, and he wants her to watch. A hum rumbles at the back of his throat. He hooks thumbs in her panties and shimmies them down until she can step free of them. He leans, hands covering hers on the glass, she presses the length of her body up against him. He whispers in her ear. “Stay right here.” The jerk of her breath pleases him. He would, he thinks, fuck her on the platform at Gare du Nord, in front of the gods, and everyone else. She insinuates herself against him and he turns his mind to the present pleasures.

His hands trace past her waist to follow the v of her torso over her hip bones, into the snug creases of her thighs, where his fingers are met with wet warmth. “Mmmmm.” He drops to his knees behind her, nudges her legs wider apart, slips his fingers along and around to frame her bottom. He spreads her cheeks, pushing her forward, presses his face close and breathes along the sensitive skin.

Nell lies flat to the window, the chilly glass on her nipples, breasts, and belly a startling contrast to the fire at her crotch. Her eyes fly open and dart around the city view. Gods, she is naked and spread to the world, golden light shining on her skin. Who sees her coming apart here, wanton and uncaring? The question ricochets through her brain and rattles away as G’s tongue presses to her core and pulls a whine from her. She closes her eyes and surrenders, fingers slide up into her, curling and pressing, twisting her desire for him upwards with dizzying swiftness.

Teeth on her bottom, a growl precedes the sudden upheaval of G standing, lifting her against the window, spreading her thighs apart and thrusting full up into her in what feels a single world altering movement. She cries with the delight of being impaled, he is hard and huge, feels as if he will come through her. She’s ravaged by the suddenness, suspended, with his cock and hips holding her up, he uses her weight and his balance to fuck into her hard and deep. His growl expands, fills her chest, vibrates her bones, sends her heavenward, helpless. Her orgasm hits like a train, barrels over and through her.

She arches backwards under the intensity and clutches behind G’s neck, bowing with sparkling pleasure, driving her hips back on his, clenching at him with her core muscles, her fingers, her legs. They tilt free of the window for a precarious second of blissful release, then G thrusts with the urgency of spilling his fire into her for what seems to arc forever. Her hands hit the window, she presses the top of her head to the glass and takes him in and in and in. Hers.

He kneels slowly, her knees touch the window, legs spreading even wider, fingers trailing down the glass, gasping. “Look.” He whispers, breath heavy on her neck. She opens her eyes. On the surface of the view of endless sparkling lights there is a watery image of a naked woman, silver strands of fluid leaking from her core around the base of a cock that quivers between her lips. The translucent reflection of them, still joined. G’s fingers come into view on her pelvis move to caress the shiny folds of hyper-sensitized skin between them, the tip of a finger vanishes up into her. She feels him. The sight is shockingly erotic, she clenches, more fluid spills. He chuckles. “Told you. Gorgeous.”

She hums, the sound falling to a low purr of satisfaction. She touches herself, warm and sticky, twines her fingers with his, slipping around the base of his cock, cupping his balls. He groans. She tries to see him in the reflections, his face not as clear as her own, further from the window.

Despite how incredibly sexy this feels, G’s softening cock slips free of her into her hand. She leans back, turning like a minnow in his arms until she’s facing him, straddling his thighs. She cups his jaw with sex scented sticky fingers. Presses her mouth to his in a kiss as thorough and intimate as the sex was.

Sadly, his knees ache under her, slight though she be, they’ve taken the brunt of his whims. He grunts his displeasure, shifts, lifts her. She rises to her feet gracefully. He scrambles up beside her. “Thank you.” He says.

“What were you thinking?” She sighs happily, strokes his shoulder.

“I was thinking I would fuck you on that window where you looked like all kinds of dessert. And, apparently, that I’m younger than I am.” He admits.

“That was wonderful.” She allows. “You…” She takes his hands and backs to the bed. She shakes her head in wonder, dark eyes sparkling. “Incredible.” She climbs onto the bed, tugging him with her to lie down where she can linger over his features, trace light fingers over his profile. She feels languid and sleepy, full and oddly contented.

G watches, her face alive with rare happiness that soothes over onto him, quenches the restlessness he’s lived with as long he can recall. Contenting her is worth everything. Anything. He loves her. Words he he doesn’t use. Thoughts he associates with the deep past, never present. He loves Sam, Michelle, the girls. He loves Hetty. They love him. But, this. He closes his eyes against the newness, lets the feeling pour over him like a baptism. Nell continues to claim him in small gestures. She’s humming very softly and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t know she’s doing it. He smiles. Her fingers flutter across his lips.

She’s the most territorial creature he’s known. She marks him with her teeth and with steel hard gazes. She also marks his spaces, stepping in front of him, leaning on him. There’s no way they will ever be able to be in the field together again. He realized last week when she put her shoulder in front of him during an argument with Arkady they shouldn’t be in the field together now. She owns very little, but what she owns she protects ferociously. He remembers this from their past, knows it is how she kept her coffee can of odd treasures. His heart contracts with imagining what could’ve possibly happened to her so very young to result in this, then and now. Now she seems to own him. She makes him feel ridiculously precious. He staves off tears by rolling onto his side, gathering her in the curve of his body. She protests losing her playscape until he kisses her quiet with long languorous kisses. He kisses her until she sighs into his mouth and settles into his arms. He kisses his unspoken love into her mouth, into her throat, into her chest, imagines enfolding her heart. Remarkably, he is not afraid. He is determined.

Nell feels G’s shift in attention. He frames her face with a hand, his mouth on hers, so tender, so deliberate, steals her breath. Like she was at the window she feels absurdly exposed, peeled open. Here in bed she is exposed only to G. She grips his shoulders, pulls him closer yet. Tries to shift the balance of power but fails, sinking under the tide of his pursuit. Delicate, adventurous kisses grip her bottom lip between his teeth one moment, carve space in her mouth with his tongue the next. All the while his air fills her, leaves her light headed, oxygen starved. She wonders if she can suffocate from kissing. She slows him, takes a breath, looks at him in the light from the bathroom, his eyes are stormy blue. She smiles.

G raises his brows.

“I love you, too.” She says.

The words burn along his nerves in an electrical storm of gratitude and pleasure.

“Have done since the first time you picked me up.” She says.

“I don’t deserve that.”

“Why?”

Because I left you, he thinks. He swallows. Because I took you entirely for granted, he amends his thought. She gazes at him, liquid golden eyes.

Her hand falls on his chest, she tilts her face slightly, thinking. “You protect me when you can. Which I suspect you haven’t done for many.” He shakes his head, opens his mouth to object, but she stills him with her other hand on his jaw. “Doesn’t mean you always could. Or can. I was right the first time, you know. You loved me and you didn’t have to. You love me.” Her eyes twinkle with silent mirth. “I love you, too.”

He accepts this convoluted piece of reasoning. She is considerably smarter than he is, after all. “I should be scared of how bossy you are.” He grumbles.

“You really should.” She agrees, smiling. She extracts herself from him reluctantly for a trip to the bathroom for a quick clean up. Turning off the light, she returns with a warm wet cloth to clean him, too. She tucks up under his arm, slides a leg between his where she likes to sleep. The movements are her equivalent of saying goodnight. He kisses her hair and sinks into the pillow. From the wall of glass across the room, the city gleams.

~

Nell wakes up to movement and streaming sunlight. The blankets shift around her, a pillow moves, but before she can voice her complaint at the disruption, a very hard cock thumps her thigh, grinds up her. She tilts very slightly to her back and G moves over her, hitches her leg up, rides up into her with a groan of pleasure in her neck. He pumps flush to her, hard enough to make her gasp with combined surprise and thrill. She pulls both knees up to take him deeper, moaning. His rhythm is quick demanding thrusts seeking release. A deepening grind of the basest need.

His urgency is contagious, igniting fire in her belly, clutching at her deepest muscles. Somewhere between dreams and consciousness she swirls up toward a gut wrenching pinnacle. He is everywhere, demanding with each sharp thrust. Her breath catches on the edge of an orgasm so deep and complete it’s nearly a cramp. Her breath catches and stops. Her vision tunnels, she shudders around him. He pushes faster and deeper, pounds a desperate rhythm through her. Another wave of contractions rip through her body, her vision whites out as he comes in a torrent, dissolves her to nothing.

At the peak of a shattering orgasm, G yells his pleasure, buries himself deep, is emptying in the best possible way, when Nell goes slack beneath him. His cock still spilling, now somewhat painfully, he withdraws, fear piercing him. What? Icy fear courses through him. What the? He sits back on his heels between her legs, stunned.

Her eyelids flicker, flutter open. Her hand rises to her head, the other hand massaging her belly. Shame lashes through him. What the fuck? “I hurt you.” He says.

“Hmmm.” She murmurs.

“Nell.” He says. She’s smiling, her eyes glossy and unfocused. She doesn’t look hurt. He leans over her, weight on his arms. “Nell.” She slowly focuses on him. “What happened?”

She shakes her head a little, winces. “Dunno.” She sighs, looking more like herself. “I… you… perfection. Then nothing.”

Nothing? “What? Like you fainted?”

“Maybe.” Her smile is back.

He examines her closely. Her color is fine, she’s present again. He collapses onto the bed beside her, throws an arm over his face. “Fuck. About killed me. You could warn a man.”

She giggles. “How was I supposed to know?” She feels distinctly light headed and wonderfully tingly. They are both sticky and slightly dripping from the odd interruption. Nell props on her elbows and gazes over at G, her vision still shiny around the edges. “I’m sorry. I was… I was holding my breath, then…” She rolls until she’s leaned against him, not ready for no contact yet. “Felt amazing.”

G lifts his arm just enough to glare at the top of her head. She doesn’t look up and he rests his arm again. “You know the only times I’ve heard of hypoxyphillia, it’s been autoerotic and dudes. Jesus.” His heart is thumping hard with the combination of thrill and fear, adrenaline screaming around in his veins in a not unpleasant cocktail reminiscent of being shot. Without the pain, of course. “I didn’t know anyone could hold their own breath until they passed out.” He mutters.

Nell mulls this over in her still sparkling brain. She feels insanely high. “When I was little they thought I had seizures.” She says.

This is not something G recalls from their past. He searches his memory and comes up with breath holding moments of temper. Pale and furious, but not passing out. He feels the smile tug at the corner of his lips. She’s still impressively cute when she’s angry. Breath holding on the knife’s edge of control seems compulsive beyond all reason. If only because one might pass out. He thinks about compulsive sleeping and the impulse to smile dies. He tries to imagine life so uncomfortable it’s better to be unconscious and can’t. Not really. The remnants of his own abandonment resulted in unrelenting searching and a lack of desire to attach. To almost anything. But he’s never wanted to be gone.

What he’d envisioned for their temporary respite was sheer debauchery. He can feel Nell evening out beside him, her breath slower and warmer on his chest. Her hands unfurling on his skin. He checks a sigh that would surely get her attention. He wants to think a moment longer. The desire to investigate her is predictable, however it’s wrong. He just doesn’t know how to get her to tell him. He doesn’t even know what he wants to know. Exactly.

It’s tempting to stay with his original plan and enjoy the woman in his arms. Except he’s not really up for more fainting. Or any other unexpected weird vanishing acts. Sam’s anger about off reservation adventures makes a lot more sense. The sigh gets away from him and Nell’s head lifts. Large, inquisitive eyes focus on him. “We lived in Chillia in my grandparent’s house on the coast of the Black Sea.” He says. “One of the things I like about LA is the ocean. One of the things I like about Paris in the Seine. Living near the water feels like home.”

Nell blinks slowly. “You remember your parents.”

“Remember everything.” He says. “Well, most things.”

“Your files say different.” There’s a hint of admiration in her voice.

“They always will.” He replies. “All I have of my life before my parents died is memories. I don’t share them. At least not often.” Nell gets smaller, pulls into herself, so G rolls to face her, holds her in the curve of his body, strokes hair from her cheek. “It’s not like your files contain anywhere close to everything about you.”

“Hardly.” Her chuckle is bitter.

“And both our files go back a very long way.” He muses. “Mine to age five, yours to age two.”

Nell assumed he read her files, though she wasn’t aware he’d read her Department of Social Services files, which would’ve required some wrangling. She read his by hacking it.

“Now there’s not a lot I recall with any details from infancy, but when I learned to swim I was about two and I recall I drank a lot of sea water.” He begins.

She listens intently to him describe random elements of a rather pedestrian sounding childhood in Romania. It sounds remarkably inviting and normal. Family friends, church, the kids from up the road who taught him how to hit a hockey puck out on a frozen stock pond. She absorbs this into her understanding of him, feels a familiar pang of envy.

“I’m hungry.” He says, matter of fact. “You hungry? Let’s take a shower and go find something to eat.” He’s nudging her toward the edge of the bed as he sits up. He takes her hand and prompts her to stand, herds her into the bathroom.

Three shower heads fill up the space with the sound of rushing water and warm steam. Stepping in the shower feels like a water assault, Nell is too short and the water falling on her from all angles is frustrating. G laughs, turning the flow of water. He hands her a wash cloth and she wipes her face. She splashes him. When he kisses her lightly, still laughing, she nips his bottom lip. But his second kiss is welcome. The mill ground soap gives up a thick creamy lather, smells of almonds. She leans into G’s hand’s on her back.

“Thank you for telling me.” She starts. “I don’t tell people much of what I remember, either. But, it isn’t as lovely as all that.” She glances up to find his eyes intent on her. She shrugs. “Nothing very romantic about drug abusing teen mom. And her mom is how that happened, so no respite there.” The lightness with which she says this does nothing to relieve his gaze.

Though she’s spoken about her childhood with both Hetty and Nate, there was a much more of a job interview quality to the experience than this moment of seeing the concern etched into G’s expression. Not that Hetty and Nate didn’t care, they did. They do. And they were both remarkably kind. Nell peers up at G, dripping over her in the steam. She closes her eyes. She just passed out on the guy having sex, for the gods sake. Some kind of true explanation is in order. He’s clearly already figured out it has something to do with her past.

She tugs him to sit on the tile bench, climbing onto his lap. Somehow naked and wet is acutely appropriate for this conversation. “I’m sorry about the breath holding. It’s been years since I passed out like that. I… when…” She falters. Blue eyes hold her steadily. She takes a breath. “Everything you’ve read about broke, desperate, reckless, all part of the sociological dregs where people aren’t really surviving, all that stuff is true. Casey, my mom, is a child of rage, of rape. My grandfather beat the shit out of my grandmother, and when she left him, he paid someone he worked with to rape her. I don’t know what Adele sees when she looks at Casey. Casey has no idea who her father is and she wouldn’t ever tell me who mine is. I was born when she was fifteen and by the time she was sixteen we were homeless and she was prostituting and using to keep us fed and numb herself.” Nell watches water run down the tile beside them.

G puts a finger to her chin and turns her face to him. “Nell, who took care of you?”

“Casey’s neighbor, Barbra Greene. She adored, she adores me. She would invite me to play at her house, kept an eye on me. Casey would dump me off on her for days at a time. She’s the one who called protective services. She says that if she’d known how hard that road would be she never would’ve done it. But it was the right thing to do. I was so scared the first time I was removed that I held my breath until I passed out. They really did think I was having seizures, all kinds of medical interventions. Then Cheryl. Until I ran away. Then just me.”

“I scared you?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m not sure, it, you felt really good, but I wasn’t really awake and felt really out of control. Not scared of you. Maybe scared of me. I’m sorry.” His mouth on hers is softly demanding and she presses closer wanting to rejoin, to kiss away the distance that’s settled between them.

The wet mist of the shower provides welcome camouflage for the flush of anger G feels rise and subside. He frames Nell’s face, lovely as porcelain, water drops on her lashes framing maple gold eyes wide with doubt. He smooths her brow with his thumbs. He kisses her again. Okay, he thinks, now I know more. He’s helpless in the face of her past. No fixing. He traces a finger down her nose, meets her gaze. “Well, I really prefer you awake.”

Nell’s smile lights her eyes.

~

G watches Nell stare up at the Arc de Triumph because she’s entranced by something, perhaps just the scale of the thing, and her face is wide open as are her gold eyes. They’ve been walking and talking for two hours. Dinner outside at a small local café, a walk to the confectioners for hot chocolate, then a long quiet stroll through busy streets of the city. They’ve reminisced through a case that went sideways a couple years ago, surprised by how the shared memories collide and diverge. G has watched a few cases unfold from tech ops and Nell has been in the field a few times, as such their perspectives on their shared work have a weirdly interesting depth. G can’t help feeling a touch of regret that he hasn’t had hers for so many years for no good reasons.

He caught her hand hours ago, delighted by the silky clasp of her fingers in his, the way her thumb traces lightly over his absently. He’s torn between raising a hand to brush hair from her face and get her attention back and just watching her.

A ragged rattle sounds in the background, under the hum of conversation and buzz of traffic. It feels impossible until Nell’s eyes rivet to his. The rat-a-tat-tat repeats. His brow furrows. Surely not.

“Machine gun.” Nell whispers, her gaze swings systematically wide as she narrows the location of the sound.

No real need. The ripple of panic reaches them quickly in the form of faint persistent screams, movement both away from and toward the melee, and a siren rings out quickly joined by more. G moves instinctually in the direction that feels the most useful before he remembers he’s not armed. Nell is his shadow as he shakes some sense into his head and changes directions away from threat instead of towards.

“What the hell is happening?” Nell asks.

He turns and Nell is on the phone. He pulls them into a doorway and listens. On speaker Eric describes what can only be some kind of organized attack just north of them. The thud of a moderate explosion locks their gazes together, underscoring the oddness of circumstance. Knowing gun-runners are just blocks away, G pulls his phone out and taps up Arkady.

Between them, Eric and Arkady make it perfectly clear that no Russians are engaged in anything tonight. A betting man would point at ISIL and take cover. Is there any way to help? Not that anyone can see. Stay out the way. Of everyone. An unusual circumstance. Both calls end. The surrounding sound level complicates and swells with urgency, anger, fear, and the wails of sirens and people. G leans back against the wall, Nell curls into his arms resting her cheek on his chest. He drops a kiss on her hair before resting his own cheek there.

Time doesn't pass so much as magnify. The clock in his head is accurate to a fault and he knows exactly what time it is. Here and in LA. If he gives it any thought at all he knows the clock time at any location. So he slowly works his way around the globe from here through familiar geographic spots back to here. That keeps the part of his brain that wants to race occupied while he simply soaks up the present. Every sound and sight assessed and then catalogued in case it should become a threat in the immediate future.

"We can't get back to the hotel." Nell says softly.

"Okay." He believes her. Her sense of where she is in space is as unerring as his sense of time. "When Eric says take cover..."

She shrugs. "DGIS isn't gonna give two shits about anything we're doing here. Smart money says Sarloff and company will be long gone by sun up. We can probably do whatever we want. Unless you're feeling some kind of obligation to Arkady."

G chuffs a breath into her hair that's part irritation, part indecision. The Paris night has exploded. He's been in a variety of combat zones for a variety of reasons, each time with a mission attached. Never just standing around. His gun is in the safe at the hotel, as is all of their tech except phones. Nell tilts her head up, meets his gaze. Her expression is speculative. His brows go up. She swallows, her brow knits in a way that causes him to brace himself.

"If you're up for more walking," she begins. "there's a back up apartment."

G blinks.

"Over in St. Germaine." She firms her lips. "I, um, rent it as a refuge. It's a decent bike ride from here, but doable. I don't think we can get a cab at this point..." She rambles to a halt in the face of his scrutiny.

"You are a constant revelation." He murmurs. "Dare I ask?"

She shakes her head. He shrugs and makes a 'lead on' gesture. They walk from the center of the city northward, watching the city react to terror in a long ripple. The most basic functions in the city are winding to a halt, the streets crowded with people discussing the attacks. Outrage permeates the air like static electricity. Snatches of conversation waft past them and they listen, each piecing together an imagined picture of what's happened.

At the first Vèlib' rack they rent bikes. Within the hour, they've slotted the bikes into another station and Nell unlocks the heavy front door of an apartment building. Up three flights of an oval staircase she unlocks the door and G follows her into a tiny flat. Fully furnished, the flat is three small rooms, a living-dining-kitchen combination, a bedroom, and a bathroom.

Nell yanks a suitcase from the back closet and unpacks a laptop. She flips it open and begins sorting through the news. G surveys Nell's refuge carefully. High ceilings and tall windows make the space feel ample. G suspects the view looks out over the courtyard in the center of the building. The flat feels nestled into the center of the building, back to the world. He cannot recall enough of an absence for her to have set this up. There are toiletries in the bathroom, yogurt, and apples in the refrigerator. She could literally grab a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and vanish here. From here, it would take her less than 48 hours to disappear. Less if she has an extra phone and a change of clothing in that suitcase.

His gaze finally swings back around to her. Over her shoulders, he sees the news unfolding and he allows himself to get drawn into the coverage. It'll be more than 48 hours before there's any respite from the disaster. It's easier to settle on the couch behind her and watch than to try to fathom her carefully staged refuge.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very kindly and thoughtfully beta-ed by snowkab.

Wandering the slow route back from Nell’s little flat to the hotel, Nell notes how deeply the surreal aftermath of terror is already etched into the city. The French government declared a state of emergency last night and the police are in the streets in a brute show of force. While many businesses are open and traffic is dense, there are far fewer tourists on the sidewalks than yesterday. News headlines are tall and grim. If a city can feel hushed this is what it must feel like, she thinks.

They arrive at the hotel where the lobby holds a somber pall of grief and confusion she remembers distinctly from the twin towers falling in NYC. Though she’d been safely ensconced at Stanford dorms, shock had stretched across the country with a tangible weight. She imagines all of France, perhaps most of the EU, in the grip of this particular nightmare. The bellman and concierge are solicitous in ways they weren’t when Nell and G arrived two days ago.

The hotel room is as they left it, towels discarded on the bathroom floor, the smell of stale champagne hanging in the air. Tellingly, the housekeeping staff hasn’t cleaned. Most likely won’t. G turns on the television and they listen to the news while they pick up the discarded clothes. They’re scheduled to check out this morning and Nell begins packing the overnight bag as she listens to the commentary.

G retrieves weapons and tech from the safe. Nell looks at her gun on the bedside table, wonders if she ought to put it in the bag. Every law enforcement person in Paris will be on duty and extra alert. G slips his reflexively into its holster at the small of his back, but she doubts their ‘official American business’ will clear them if they’re caught armed today.

G’s phone chimes. “Arkady.” He lifts it to his ear.

Nell leaves him to it and collects her cosmetic bag from the bathroom sink. The conversation is one sided with G not saying a word. She checks her handgun, loaded, locked, and reluctantly slides it snugly into the waistband of her jeans. She zips up their overnight bag. G ends the call and she looks at him expectantly.

He lifts a shoulder. “Sarloff is leaving. Arkady is furious. He wants us back at the flat.”

“Leaving?”

G lifts a shoulder and gestures to the television. “Parliament essentially passed martial law last night. DGSI has free reign to bust whomever they’d like. I’d bet he wants to head to more secure ground.”

“Seems reasonable.” Nell says. “Furious?”

“No idea. He was sputtering.” G shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s get a cab.”

As they ride, Nell sorts through options to suggest to Hetty. Sarloff has the right of this and they should all want to leave town as fast as they can. It seems within reach to patch together the trade deal in Russia – though no back up would come from the FSB as it would’ve here. Perhaps she could convince them all to relocate closer. Austria, perhaps. Or, Portugal. The prospect of trying to wrangle both G and Arkady through new operations parameter isn’t welcoming. 

At Arkady’s flat, they walk straight into an argument between Arkady and Sarloff that is unfolding in the entryway hall. Granted the hall is a good sized room, but the pent up energy between both men and their respective security staff fills the space. G closes the door behind them and maneuvers the luggage to the side. There’s no obvious path past this standoff into the apartment.

The two older men measure each other from seven paces, barely acknowledging Nell and G’s arrival. In the adjacent living room, Anna paces behind the couch, smartphone in hand and seeming engrossed.

Arkady asks, “You deny this?”

Anton Sarloff raises an eyebrow. “Comescu ordered a hit on all of them. It was the only way I could think to keep him alive.” He inclines his head.

“Betray him to KGB?” There’s quiet outrage in Arkady’s voice that brings Sarloff’s bodyguard to attention. “Allow them to kill his family?”

“ _Betray_ him?” Sarloff sounds genuinely surprised. “Yes, I suppose you could look at it this way. But it worked. He was not killed. I half expected him to be here with you.”

“With me?” Arkady asks. “What are you talking about?”

Sarloff shrugs, waves off his bodyguard. “I assumed. Perhaps I am wrong. Word was, you were all dead and gone. Then he turned up in Moscow, new name, still working for the underground. I was very sorry to hear about his wife and children. Now, you show up, also not dead. I assumed.”

In her peripheral vision, Nell sees G straighten. Petrov, Nell can’t recall if he’s a driver or a body guard, touches Sarloff’s shoulder, indicates the door with his head. 

Arkady isn’t having any of it. “Moscow. What in the hell are you talking about?”

Sarloff says something incongruent about a coffee house Nell doesn’t catch. A low rumble from below snags her attention. She moves from the door, skirting Arkady, to look out a window in the living room. It sounds like a lot of feet outside. She glances at G, but he is riveted to Sarloff. Nell pauses, realizes belatedly that they’ve probably been talking about G’s father. Anna reaches the window and mutters a curse in English that gets everyone’s attention fast. But too late.

The front door crashes inward with the percussive force of a battering ram. Two small canisters roll across the floor and fill the room with smoke and sound. Sarloff’s guard has a gun in hand and gets off several shots as geared up men storm into the apartment, rifles drawn. The flash bangs momentarily blinding her, Nell lets her bag fall from her shoulder, squats to the floor, her own gun drawn and takes a shot at Petrov’s right thigh. He falls, hopefully saving his life. The one man in the room Nell doesn’t know is practically vaporized in the hail of returned gunfire from the DGSI team. 

The gun is kicked from Nell’s hands and she’s shoved to the floor, a heavy knee in her back. Arms jerked behind her, cuffs slam onto her wrists and ratchet tight. Air leaves her lungs when she’s thrown aside and for long seconds she can’t breathe at all. Her chest hurts, struggles to expand. Across the room, G is on the floor, also in cuffs. Their eyes meet. His gaze is stormy blue and intense on hers. She wants to smile, reassure him somehow but doesn’t really have control of her face as she waits for air. She hates having the wind knocked out of her. G rises to his knees. She shakes her head. Air slowly seeps back into her lungs. He subsides.

Seems they’re both okay. She can’t see Arkady, but she hears him huffing. An arrest was part of the original deal with the French, who wanted to take everyone down in one action and keep Sarloff and his crew in the dark. Weeks from now, not today. Nell grits her teeth, lays her cheek on the floor. Anna curses under her breath nearby.

In the lapsed reality that is yesterday’s ISIL strike, it hadn’t occurred to Nell that the DGSI plan to eventually ‘bust’ their imaginary gun trafficking circle might morph into a higher threat or trigger this momentary mayhem. Sarloff’s impetus to leave the country suddenly makes more sense. If the French think Sarloff’s organization has supplied weapons to terrorists… Nell sighs. She wonders if any of the officers present know that she and G work for the US government.

Nell and Anna are separated from the men in the apartment foyer and hustled into a squad car. They don’t make it into booking or holding but are kept in interrogation rooms at the police station for six long uninteresting hours. The higher ups here seem to know she’s with NCIS, not that they care at the moment. No phone, no computer, no company. Nell crosses her arms on the table and goes to sleep.

When Nell finally steps out of the police station, it’s nearing midnight and pouring rain. Instantly soaked, she walks and considers her choices. Very little of the original plans were executed. As best she knows, DGSI only has hold of two of Sarloff’s complement of staff. With one dead, that leaves four more that she can think of. She doesn’t believe she’s met all of his entourage. She also doesn’t imagine any of them are lingering in France to be scooped up.

The Police headquarters is closer to her St. Germaine rental than Arkady’s flat. She’d been hauled off without money or phone, so she keeps walking. Without keys, she resorts to going over the back gate past the laundry room where the building door is frequently propped open. Tonight is no different. She makes her way to the front foyer and digs in the potted palm beside the door for the spare key.

 

Grateful for small comforts, Nell peels off her damp clothing and hops into the shower. She’s tired and hungry, but the warm soapy water rinses away a little of the fatigue and all of the stale odors from the police station. With a cup of steaming hot tea, she curls up on the sofa and pulls up the news on her laptop. DGSI is everywhere. They’ve practically taken the city apart. The bust at Arkady’s gets mention as a possible lead on the terrorists. It’s going to be a fascinating couple of months in the French underworld as the DGSI flexes it’s considerably expanded powers.

It’s early morning on the US West Coast, so she calls in. Hetty was on the phones with NSA and DGSI most of the night, read in on everything happening on the legal end. With Sarloff under arrest in France without any leads on the arms shipment’s origins, the operation can be considered safely, if pre-maturely, concluded – NCIS’s spin – or shattered – Nell’s feeling. Nell gives Hetty the details of the arrest and determines neither of them have heard from or about G. Nell assures Hetty that she’s headed towards safety and will be in touch before ending the call. A text from Eric asking what phone she’s using makes her smile. Of course, she has a spare. Wouldn’t he?

Off the lines with LA and weary to the bone, Nell takes in the tiny flat hoping it will offer some direction. G has probably taken off to find Reznikov. In her muddled recollection of the argument prior to all the excitement, she’s pretty sure Sarloff said his father was alive in Moscow. She should probably be trying to sort out how much of a hole has been blown in their operation, but just that thought causes her to yawn. The six hours she spent sleeping at the police station were while sitting and the bed looks mighty inviting.

She slides between the sheets, every muscle relieved to be prone, and closes her eyes. Her brain knows he’s fine. If anyone can take care of himself, it’s G. Her traitorous heart hungers for him, recalls his touch, his laugh, with aching clarity. She groans, turns over. It only stands to reason that he’s gone. She wills her body to sleep.

She dreams of gunfire, blood cast off, and swimming in the ocean. Then she’s on a dark beach, trying to decide where to go. She hears G calling and tries to go to him, but can’t tell where his voice is coming from, wandering around in the dark, sand under her feet, the sound of the surf everywhere. In the dream, she stumbles around in circles for what feels like forever, buffeted by the wind. Because she has some control over her dreams, she wills herself to go deeper to sleep. Go under this and sleep. G’s voice gets closer, until he’s behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She drifts more deeply to sleep, under the dreams, finally resting.

~

G wakes to incessant aching in what feels like every muscle. Getting too old for this, he thinks. A thought he's had far too often of late. He's beginning to see why Sam's so scrupulous about food and exercise. He's aware of Nell, wide awake beside him, possibly staring at him. Possibly what woke him in the first place. He opens his eyes to a slight frown over the gold kaleidoscope gaze he’s come to love. He means to say good morning, or hello, or hey, or something. What comes out is a groan. Which gets a soft smile that’s worth everything.

“You okay?” She asks, bemused.

“Mmmmm.” Not quite another groan, but close. “Just old. Yeah, fine. You?”

Her smile widens. “Surprised you’re here.”

“Where the hell else would I be?” He rubs a shoulder, finds a bruise. Winces. “Man.” She doesn’t answer. He surveys her face. Her expression is a complicated blend of mixed feelings. Of the doubt, fear, amazement and pleasure he can discern, he chooses to go with the pleasure. Leaving his internal damage assessment for later, he strokes a finger lightly over her cheek, leans in, kisses her. Soft mouth, movement toward him, hands on his chest. He growls contentment. “Good morning.” He kisses her again, enjoying the taste of her, the caress of her tongue against his, the silk of her skin under his hands.

“Good morning.” She returns his kiss, her entire body comes alive next to him, but the doubt lingers in her voice.

He looks at her for a long moment. “You really didn’t think I was coming.”

Her lips quiver on the verge of a frown, the same one she was wearing when he woke. He waits. She takes a breath. “I usually try and expect the worst.”

“Me not coming would be the worst?” He grins. “Is that because you want me here?” He allows a very slight of edge of teasing into his voice.

She looks away. “I’d get it if you were on your way to Moscow.”

“I am on my way to Moscow,” he says. “But, not on my way there instead of on my way to you. Those aren’t mutually exclusive things.”

She blinks slowly, anchoring him in her gaze. It’d be hard to imagine anywhere he’d rather be. He nuzzles up under her neck, kissing along her jaw, breathing her in. He traces a hand up from her hip, over her ribs to the curve of her breast. Warm, satin smooth. He feels her intake of breath, her nipples brush his chest, her leg comes over his hip. Her core nudges his cock. He growls his pleasure and desire, rolling to cover her. She takes him. She arches, her gorgeous throat the last thing he sees as she takes him deep and his eyes drop closed.

All his senses hone around rhythm and heat, sweet friction. Fingers digging into his shoulders, muscles clenching around him, and there it is, a low purr that goes straight to his groin. She begins to come apart, breath shallow and quick, clenching, moaning surrender. Damn if that doesn’t reach right inside him. He follows, long deep thrusts and lightning fills him up, fuzzes thought, his hips stutter and everything fizzes away to scorching pleasure.

Utterly emptied, he rolls to his side, slipping away from her. She’s laughing softly beside him, snuggling up under his arm. He savors the rarest of sounds; her unchecked delight. Something he only hears during or after love. It flashes through him that maybe he’s the only person who’s ever heard it, he chuffs a laugh at the crazy possessiveness she sparks in him. He sets his teeth on her shoulder. She gasps and turns. He frames her face with his hands. “Come’ ere.” He drops a light kiss on her lips. “I want you,” he whispers with the urgency he feels. Her eyes widen. He doesn’t want to scare her, thinks he needs to tamp it down a notch, but then can’t. “Heart, mind, body and soul. Want you.” He sees in her face that she isn’t convinced today. But at least, he’s put it out there. “As long as that’s clear,” he teases gently.

“So, Moscow?”

“Not without you.”

She ponders this statement, a very subtle uptick of the corner of her mouth, then a fleeting smile. She kisses him, hums.

He has let lots of similar silences hang in the past, thinking that silence was kinder than truth. Now he’s not so sure. Her silence hurts. The sudden constriction in his chest nearly stops his breath. A bit like a bullet, he thinks. In the wake of the rather punishing night, he wonders if it’s exhaustion making him feel so wholly unprepared.

Nell yawns, a sure sign of full retreat. She stretches and he sees the bruises around her wrists from the handcuff’s last night darkening. He traces over them with his thumbs. He’s tempted to take inventory of her. Hates to see her hurt, even knowing it was inevitable.

“I should feed you,” he says, dodging away from the uncertainty. “I’m starving.” He taps her chin.

Her eyes fly open. “Starving, yes. Me, too.”

G climbs from the bed and tugs on his boxers. He takes the six steps to the tiny kitchenette and opens the half fridge, leaning over to peer inside. “Omelet coming up.” He sets a bottle of orange juice on the small counter. He cooks, letting the rote motions soothe his nerves. He uses the break from her guarded gaze to consider the keenly honed brand of karma that brought her back into his heart. He serves their breakfast on the rumpled bed covers. They eat companionably, discussing the events of the past weeks and eventually parsing out the possibility G’s father is alive somewhere near Moscow.

Cross-legged on the bed, nibbling toast, tapping on her ever present tablet, Nell is stunningly beautiful. Sheaves of mahogany colored hair go in every direction, a sprinkle of freckles on creamy shoulders, a foot tucked under her butt. G lies back on the pillows, mesmerized by the arch of her torso showing ribs through the cotton t-shirt as she puts her plate on the floor and redoubles her attention on the screen. It turns out to be ridiculously handy that her security clearance is higher than his. Apparently it’s high enough that he can’t tell what kind of god awful scary clearance she has. At the moment she’s scrolling through NSA files, which he didn’t even know was possible. “I’m sending a list of possibilities to your phone,” she says, surreally reminiscent of OSP.

G frowns. “So you’re coming,” he says, something between a comment and a question. Gold flecked eyes meet his, again surprised. “Aren’t you?” he amends. He hitches up on an elbow. She stares, brushing hair from her face, gisting him now, as if she’ll see something in his face to explain his words. A rush of thoughts collide, about missing his family, missing Nell, talking to Sam, needing to go, needing to stay. “Nell.”

She focuses. “I don’t know, I wasn’t…” She stops. “What?”

He collapses back on the pillows without taking his gaze from hers. “It feels as if I have to choose. Going. Or you.” His own surprise tinges his voice.

“I don’t…” She straightens. “Your father…” She gives her head a small shake, puffs out a breath.

“We’ll figure it out later.” He sits, glances around the room for an escape from her scrutiny. “We ought to report in and debrief. Find out what happened to Arkady and Anna.” He rolls off the bed and gathers up their dishes. He feels the weight of her gaze as he slides the dishes onto the counter. He leans in the phone-booth sized bathroom and turns on water for a shower.

Hetty, Granger, and Vance are in high level security meetings. No instructions have been left for G and Nell. Eric informs them that Arkady and Anna left Paris that afternoon. Anna is returning to LA, while Arkady is heading for Moscow. Sam, nominally in the lead agent role, agrees that leaving Paris is a good idea, in friend mode he offers to meet G in Moscow. There’s an awkwardness to having six of them on video chat and no decisions are made. One of the three directors may or may not be available later – the middle of the night in Paris. 

No one will be flying out of France for next few days. The airports and train stations are functionally shut down today and tomorrow, after that people with travel plans already made will have first priority on reservations. Not knowing whether they’re heading east or west, G relaxes into the middle path. “We don’t have anywhere to be,” he says. “We can stay here until things ease up. Three, four days and we should be fine.”

Nell blinks at him solemnly.

He sprawls on the bed with a deep sigh, throwing an arm over his face. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he mutters. “Lemme get a nap, then we can go get some groceries.”

~

Nell lies on the grass at Place de Vosges, listens to G’s side of a conversation with Sam and stares up at the roofline. The sunshine is pleasantly warm on her face, arms and legs. Voices eddy around her, in and out of her attention. French, English, Italian, and Spanish, seemingly in equal measure and two people speaking Farsi nearby. Though she’s not as clear as she’d like to be on this point, apparently if she goes back to LA, G will go back and if she’ll go with him, G will go to Moscow to look for his father there. She wasn’t planning to do either of those things. She was planning to run. Not that he knew. Knows. She sighs.

If she’d missed him for years when they were kids, it’s a pale comparison to how attracted she is to him now, how much she loves him, despite trying so hard not to. She knows that whenever this ends it’ll hurt. Some moments she’s inclined to walk away and get the hurt over and done with. Other moments she knows she’ll stay, wait him out, suffer later, take whatever tiny slices more of this she can. She ought to have told Hetty no to this op and gone on her way then.

She’s tricked herself into this corner. If she stays with G, he will sneak beneath her fragile equilibrium, is nearly there now, because she loves him, has always loved him. She’s put herself back together with the spiritual equivalent of spit and baling wire countless times, surely when he leaves her she can do it again. If she goes with him to Moscow and they find his father… well, that hardly bears thinking. How can she be any part of that, ever? If she runs now, makes a clean break before he gets any closer…

“Stop it.” G’s voice yanks her attention around. He’s no longer on the phone. She should've paid better attention. He’s looking at her intently. “Whatever you’re doing or thinking, stop.”

She smiles, can’t help it. “How’s Sam?”

G doesn’t answer her dodge. “We need to figure out our next move. You and I.” He’s on his belly, up on elbows. He picks tangles their fingers together as if to make a point.

“You should go to Moscow, see what you can learn,” she says.

“I agree and I’d go in a hot minute, but I’m not letting you out of my sight any time soon.” His fingers tighten on hers. She tilts her head. “Admit it. You’ll run,” he says.

She cuts her eyes at him, feeling caught.

“Nell, you set up your own place here. You don’t have a place in LA. You obviously don’t believe I will stay. What else’m I supposed to think?” He asks. “And I cannot add you to the list of people I’m looking for. The last two I found are dead and there’s a good chance my father is dead too. You,” he meets her eyes, his own a stormy contrast to his level tone. “You are alive and well and here. You are enough.” He pauses and scrubs the back of his head. “If you decide we’re not good together, then so be it. We’ll cope. But don’t run.”

“When we get instructions to go back to LA?” She asks. “Then what?”

“I will go where you go.” His gaze drops. A blush blooms up his neck and touches his cheeks with heat.

Nell blinks, reaches to run a finger over his collarbone. She doesn’t imagine even he can blush on command. He means what he says. She cannot go off with him on a quest to find his father in Moscow. She can’t ask him to run with her to nowhere. She can agree not to run. She swallows. “Okay. When we get our assignment, we take it. I won’t run.” G watches her face for a long moment. It’s not what he wants. She can tell. But surely it’s better than no answer at all. “Okay,” she whispers.

Pleasure lights G’s expression, his fingers tighten on hers. Her stomach tumbles with the enormity, and she’s tempted to warn him off, temper the seriousness of the moment, but his mouth is on hers, his hand on her cheek, his breath in her lungs, and he tastes like rapture. She’s not running.

~

Paris becomes comfortably routine the next day. No one seems to have any need for either of them. Without the forward motion of work, Nell and G are domesticated by inactivity. G makes breakfast while Nell showers; she cleans up while he does. They take a slow walk around the neighborhood, familiarizing themselves with nearby shops. They have lunch sitting on a park railing with street vendor sandwiches and lemonade.

On the second day without a mission, it becomes clear that with Sarloff in jail, the original operation has stalled. DGSI has one agent still assigned to tracking down the rest of Sarloff’s crew. G and Nell offer what information they have in the way of contacts, descriptions, and impressions. The airports are still a mess. The six-hour time difference means by the time they connect with LA, it’s late afternoon. They spend several hours online with the team in LA, thinking through the possibility of locating the other end of Sarloff’s business in Moscow, with or without Kolchev’s help.

While Nell works sprawled across the bed, G lounges on the cramped settee reading and making the occasional suggestion. Sam suggests they take a train to Germany and get out on a military flight back to the states. It’s a great idea and as soon as one of the team tracks down Hetty or Granger for some approvals, they’re more than ready to go.

Day three comes without any official word from OSP. There’s something soothing about daily food gathering, simple meals, and little to do. By late afternoon they're considering taking in a movie. Nell scrolls through the offerings, listing titles they've both seen at home. “Well, I wouldn't normally be interested, but James Bond is bound to be entertaining in French.” 

G makes a noncommittal noise.

“Or, there's a Danish vampire movie.”

He shoots her a mildly horrified glance.

She shrugs. “Documentary on something in Sudan?” He tilts his head. “Gah.” She nudges him. “Of course. You would. Ugh. Don’t you do anything entertaining?” she chides. His brows rise. She nods. “Okay. Yes. Reading and sex are both entertaining.” It scares her a little to read his expressions so well.

“Museums,” he adds. They went to the museums the first week in Paris and he liked that a lot. Liked the art, the hush, the way Nell looks at abstract paintings. Very entertaining. The corner of his mouth lifts. He likes history and literature. He also likes physical, and in the past month they’ve been basically undercover and workouts have been fewer and farther between, what with travel and the predilection of Arkady’s security staff to rely on tech and weaponry. “Rock climbing. Bike rides?” he suggests.

“There’s a concert at Notre Dame?” Nell counters. “And some kind of festival…” She frowns at her phone.

G sighs. “Too much trouble,” he admits.

She scrunches her face. “Aren’t you bored?”

G shakes his head. “What’s to be bored? Good company, good food, nice surroundings.” He shrugs. He stretches out beside her on the bed, reaching over her shoulder to close the lid of her laptop. He strokes the side of her cheek, and she leans into his touch. “You, on the other hand, sound bored.”

“Mmmm.” She hums against his palm. “A bit.” 

“If we don’t go see a Danish vampire movie, what else could we do?” There’s humor under his voice.

Nell faces him, eyes wide and serious. “Go find your father.”

G freezes. His brows pull together. “What?”

Nell smiles, small and rueful. “You heard me…”

G blinks. “I did. I just… I’m not sure what you meant.”

Nell taps her fingers on the lid of the laptop. “I changed my mind.” Her chin lifts. “If there’s a we – and you assure me there is – then we probably ought to go to Moscow and look for your father. It scares me, yeah.” She breaks off and glances away from him. “Either way, if we find him or not, you might want something really different than this.” She gestures between them. “Anyway. No way to know without going. Let’s see what we can find.” She lifts the lid of the laptop and begins typing.

G can’t think of any way to argue that he will of course still want this. That it’s hard for him to imagine not having this. “Nell.”

She stops him with a look. “G. Listen. I don’t want to just be some piece of your childhood like your house that you hold onto because you don’t have anything else. I don’t want to be the thing that stopped you from finding your family, either. What I want… well, I don’t know what I want. So, you do know what you want. We ought to go find your father. I’ve still got access to Arkady’s system,” she mutters, returning her attention to the computer. “I’m trying to see if I can find this… coffee house Sarloff was talking about.”

“We were in a place the last time we were there with Arkady. He showed me a picture of Resnikov on the wall, told me about his work on behalf of dissidents. Do you think…” G muses. “Christ. Could we’ve been that close?”

“Okay, that helps.” Nell narrows her search. “That ought to be noted somewhere in the case file.”

G leans back to think. He recalls the morning Hetty told him she’d found his father’s grave. “D’you think Hetty…”

“Nope.” Nell sounds very sure.

“But…”

“I’d prefer to think your father is very good at hiding until proven otherwise,” she adds. “Let’s go back to that café. It’s as good a place to start as any. We can drive to Bern and get a flight from there. We’ll just use our Russian passports.” She grins up at him.

G kisses her. “Love you.” His kiss deepens, consumes her response, the laptop sliding away as he rolls her on top of him.

Her laugh vibrates between them. Caught in the sparkle of his gaze, she has to breathe, pulls away slightly. She could drown in the desire there. She meets his mouth again, carefully taking her time to taste him thoroughly, wrapping her tongue around his. Her fingers caress his jaw, stroking along his jaw, lingering on the three days of beard. He’s got his hands on her ribs, gripping with what feels like reverence and she sighs against his lips. She tries to bend her thoughts around the idea of him so tightly focused on her when he could be anywhere else. His presence remains a marvel and a mystery. His hips thrust up in an unconscious search for friction, for her. She tucks her knees to his sides and snugs closer to him. Although they’re still fully clothed, the press and grind is thrilling. She gasps in pleasure. Thought slips to where he’s tracing lightning across her skin.

His hands slip up under her shirt, peeling the fabric away. A hot mouth on her breast through the silk of her bra has her reaching back to unclasp it, tossing the bra aside. He rolls her over, tugging at her jeans. She grips a handful of his t-shirt. “This has to go.”

He obligingly sheds the shirt, and she runs her hands up his abs and over his ribs. He works her jeans in earnest, sliding her panties away with them, down her legs until she can kick them off. He crawls back up and kisses her belly, a hand slipping up the inside of her thigh in a long motion that presses fingers into her, drawing out a moan. Her hips buck into his touch. How is he still half dressed? She huffs impatiently.

He chuckles and unbuckles. She slides her hand past his waistband, past his jockeys to close around his cock. He drags off his jeans with a groan of appreciation. She shoves his shoulders, and they roll again. Atop him, she frames his face with both hands to kiss him soft, deep, and long. “G,” she whispers. With teasing fingers, she guides him into her, settling back on his hips and rocking. Her weight settles him to the hilt, filling her with the lovely stretch and press that makes her skin tingle and her muscles twitch. She clenches around his cock and enjoys the soft puff of air that escapes him. His hips snap up, hard. She braces herself with hands splayed on his chest. His fingers dig into her hips so hard that she knows there will be bruises later, but he holds her in place, driving into her, spinning her desire out and up, and she comes undone over him, a growl in her throat, his name on her lips. He rocks through her orgasm, chasing her, savoring her release, riding his own pleasure, hips stuttering, spilling into her.

She collapses on him, kissing his chest, neck, jaw, closing on his mouth, humming pleasure. “You,” she murmurs.

“Hmmph?” he grunts. He tunnels his hand up into her hair, cradles the back of her head, returns her kiss. “Good.”

“Yeah.” She props up to pepper his face with fond kisses.

He slips from her, and she nestles in beside him, loving the warmth of his skin on hers. “I should get a washcloth.” She murmurs.

“I got it.” He rolls to sit. “I think most of that is on me.”

They clean up and curl into bed, though it’s still early. With the sense memory of lovemaking fresh in her bones, Nell tugs the laptop over and goes back to work.

It turns out there’s a high-speed train from Paris to Geneva in the morning. First class ensures them tea, food, and decent internet. Nell books tickets, and another set for the flight from Geneva to Moscow, highly aware of the fact that she’s still spending Kolchev money. Using the credit cards that Arkady loaned them to compete their cover seems the only way to keep under the OSP radar long enough to get where they’re going. She sends a message to both Arkady and Anna, letting them know where they’re headed, crossing her fingers that Arkady will agree with the decision enough to keep footing the bill for a few more days.

G watches her work from the head of the bed. He thinks about calling Sam, a habit when he’s stirred up about family. He’s not sure what he’d say. Sam knows that he’ll try to find Resnikov whenever the opportunity arises. What G doesn’t want is orders from Hetty, Granger, or Vance to return to LA or otherwise re-engage with OSP. Nell’s impulse to stay below the radar altogether is classic Nell thinking and probably correct in this case.

He wonders fleetingly if his father will recognize him or if he’ll have to, what, introduce himself. Nothing good comes from that train of thought, he knows. Just anxiety. 35 years of curiosity is hard to dodge, though. He’s fairly sure that he won’t recognize his father. How could he? They could walk right past each other, even speak, maybe already have done, and not have any idea who they’re seeing. The circle of speculation is daunting. Exhausting. Futile. He yanks his attention away from the endless loop and rests it on the woman sprawling across the middle of bed, under his legs.

Milky skin scattered with gold freckles, hair in disarray over one shoulder where she's shoved it out her way. She works, lying on her stomach with her back arched in a position he'd find uncomfortable but is one of her go to work postures. She is over all more flexible than he's ever been. Her fingers fly, the soft percussion of her touch on the keys weirdly comforting. His legs are propped over hers, her foot absently caressing up and down his calf and thigh. She'd be surprised if he mentioned that he finds the gesture arousing. She's all business when working, despite the sweet slip and slide of her foot.

On an upstroke, he catches her foot and massages the arch with a thumb. She leans her foot into the touch without a pause in the steady tap tap on the laptop. The skin on her foot is satin and warm. His gaze chases up her leg and over the pristine curve of her butt. Large swaths of her are as smooth as a petal. By the time he was her age, he'd lost count of injuries and been shot at least twice, no, probably three times. Sometimes she lingers over his scars with an odd tenderness that makes him wish she wouldn’t suffer them for him. When he expressed that she snorted, as if he didn't sift through her past doing the same. Touché. He does wish she'd been dealt another hand at birth. She dismissed that too. If she had, she said, she'd be someone else.

In response to her message, Arkady calls. “Batya.” She begins when she answers his call. “Have you found him?” She cuts to the chase. Arkady skirts her question by inviting her to stay at his estate and assuring her he will help in every way he can. He acknowledges that they are all off the reservation on this. Nell gets the details of the coffee house they’re looking for and the coin that may let them know they’ve found someone from the resistance. “Let me talk to Callen” she says. “I’m not sure this needs to be an all play event, Batya. I know you need to see that your friend is well, but…” Arkady is silent for a moment, then tells Nell he understands, will wait. He will wait to do anything until he hears from her. She thanks him, “I love you, Batya.” She adds, liking the habit of their cover. Liking Arkady. He huffs into the phone a sound of mingled amusement and affection.

 Nell taps the call closed, a smile on her lips. A few more days of the artifice of having a family is welcome. She knows she shouldn’t be attached to the little details of this cover, the endearments, the feeling of being part of something. But, it’s been nice. Sad and nice. She wrinkles her nose and turns to G.

Arkady's intel revolved the routine of meeting someone at a coffee house. Old school trade craft. In the eighties, Resnikov would be there on Sunday evenings. Someone needing shelter could find him by looking for the large silver coin he played with and then drop a napkin at his feet. Later he would leave an envelope for them at the bar with instructions and a coin to pass along. To prove that they’d gotten the information from him. The last step in a multi-layered process. G absorbs this information without comment.

“Arkady won’t do anything to try to find your father until he hears from me.” Nell ends her recitation of the phone call. 

G nods. He likes having forward motion, somewhere to go. He’s wary of yet another attempt to find a family that most days seems as ethereal as smoke. The knife’s edge balance of hope and practicality is hard work, hardest when he thinks he’s found a clue.

He shifts to lie on his side, feeling drowsy at last. She moves in concert, extracting a leg from between his and curling up. Surprisingly, she closes the laptop. She shifts to her side, becoming the little spoon, nestling her back to his chest, snugging her much admired butt to his thighs. The contact is tantalizing. He slips an arm over her waist, his other arm up under the pillow to pull her closer. He enjoys her small purr of satisfaction and hopes that she set an alarm somewhere. They have an early train to catch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the gracious snowkab

Callen taps a matchbook on the tablecloth. He leans back, one hand on the coffee mug. The coffee house is filling up with the evening crowd. The coffee is excellent, round and heavy with a clean sweet finish. He makes a point to think through the flavors, using the process to relax into the chair, make this place his. While he can vanish, it takes more work than allowing his natural charisma to dominate a space. And, he wants to be noticed tonight.

He has at least another hour to pass. This is as nice a place as any to spend an evening; warm décor that 40 years ago would have been opulent, low light, quiet music, soft conversation punctuated by greetings. A place where a person feels at ease as a regular or newcomer. The waitress is young, happy to get him a cup of coffee, explains about refills. At several tables, people are bent over laptops.

He opens the book he’s brought, a ragged copy of Turgnev’s Fathers and Sons he purchased three days ago in a used bookstore. Stupid, but somehow important. A talisman of sorts. He vacillates between surety that Resnikov will be here tonight and the opposing certainty that nothing will happen. Arkady suggested he follow the routine, dropping the damn napkin. Now that he’s been here half an hour, he’s considering simply joining the man at the table. It feels like an op, an op with no back-up. The danger though isn’t to life and limb tonight. He doesn’t want to contemplate what the real danger is.

The coffee house is a neat cover location. Situated on a corner just off a main thoroughfare, the building has three obvious exits onto two streets and within a half block someone can be in a crowd. Callen’s chooses a table between to exits, easy to go either way. He scouted the fourth exit this morning on his only reconnaissance run, a delivery door that opens onto a six space parking lot behind the building.

G leaves the book on the table with the coffee mug and stands, he nods at the waitress indicating a trip to the bathroom. On the way past the bar he glances again at the photograph Arkady showed him a year ago, his father as a much younger man. Younger than G is now. The lone window in the bathroom is high and small, the very last ditch option for an exit. All he knows to do is treat this like a job. Nell waits at another coffee shop three blocks away. He’s completely unlikely to need to run. He suspects she’s the reason he was able to tell Sam he doesn’t need help. He has help.

Back at the table, he settles. He stops watching people come and go, orders another cup of coffee, begins to read in earnest. He’s been able to do this since childhood. Been able to sink into a novel while remaining completely alert to everything around him. A gift from foster care. If one decides to become a cop or a spy. Probably not so handy otherwise. What does Marty call it, skillful hypervigilance. Yes. That. Something he, Marty, Kenzi, and Nell have from troubled pasts, Sam has from active duty combat, and Eric and Nate will never have.

G lets his thoughts chase around for a bit, skimming over the familiar Russian text, until the story finally anchors in his head and he follows it, reading in truth for twenty pages. At the end of the chapter, he glances over the bookbinding. The room is exactly like he saw it half an hour ago. He goes back to reading. The third time he looks over the book to check the room, a man two tables away is watching him. The man is also spinning a large silver coin on the table top.

G drops his gaze back to the page, if only to have his thoughts to himself for a moment. The gesture is a futile one. The man stands and comes to the table, easing into the chair across from G. “You know who I am.” The gravel of his voice doesn’t ask, rather tells. He slides a coin across the table, taps it once.

“I think so.” G answers. “Maybe.” He gazes into warm brown eyes that are as unfamiliar as any stranger’s.

The older man inclines his head. “I know much about you. And you don’t know me.”

G takes the coin, it’s warm from the other man’s hand, and traces a finger across the face of it. “I was told about this. About you. By Arkady Kolchek.” Nothing is coming easily. G is unsure who to be in this moment. The habit of slipping away vies with his need to know.

“I am called Garrison.” Garrison’s expression is solemn, though his eyes drink in G’s face. He taps the cover of the book on the table between them. “I don’t believe in excuses – giving reasons for actions. The actions themselves are all that matter.”

“Well sometimes,” G begins. Stops. 

“You can hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” G says. I don’t even know you, he thinks. “But, the reasons matter. To me, they matter.” There’s an odd formality here he wasn’t expecting. “I’ve always looked for you.” He slips the coin into his pocket. Garrison’s gaze follows the gesture and G sees the first hint of a smile on the weathered face.

“Not always.” Garrison corrects. “Callen, I know who you are and the things you’ve done. Arkady kept his promises well. Shreiber, too. I did not send you into the world alone.”

G frowns. Never has it crossed his mind, not once, that his father has known who he is, where he was, what he’s done, without finding him. “You knew. And Amy.” He blurts softly.

Garrison inclines his head. “Your mother died, also. Part of me died.”

G’s thoughts spin past the sliver of Garrison’s grief. There is nothing recognizable for G’s reasoning to grip onto here.

“I made sure you got away,” Garrison says. “I could not come for you. Or come to you. I could not have protected you. The only protection for any of us was to vanish. And even then we were never truly safe.” 

“You didn’t let me…” G realizes he’s thinking aloud and cuts himself off. That won’t work. Whatever fantasies he had about finding this man begin to evaporate into the reality of the present. Whatever expectations he holds begin sifting to dust. He clenches his jaw against asking anything more. “To me, the reasons matter, too.” He says. 

“You are a good man.” Garrison lingers over the thought. “I will tell you. Another time.” He gestures to the room. “Another place. I will tell it to you all. Everything.” He extends his hand. “Do svidaniya, Grisha.” A neutral goodbye, until we meet next. He’s standing.

G gets to his feet and takes the offered hand. “Grisha?” He asks, unsure if he heard this.

Garrison’s grip is firm, formal, distant. “Grisha Alexandrovich Nikolaev.” His father says the name carefully. “Your mother wanted you to know where you came from. I have work.” Garrison lets go G’s hand and glances to the table he abandoned. “Take the coin to Arkady. He will find me. I will find you.” 

“Do vstrechi.” G says. 

“Be safe, son.” Garrison walks back to the table he was seated at and leaves several bills under the water glass. He leaves the coffee house without looking back.

G’s gaze follows the man who called himself Garrison out the door and for about a half block before he cannot see him any longer. The temptation to follow is strong and it’s an effort to stay put. He understood the dismissal, yet cannot quite fit forty years of waiting into this tiny exchange. Almost everything he knows about being a father he’s learned from watching Sam. The rest is from memories. Memories of being rocked to sleep, of a large hand around his, of a big laugh and strong arms. He can’t imagine either man walking away from his children. Yet.

The air outside is crisp and cool and G sucks in a deep breath. He can’t feel the ground under his feet quite. Nell waits for him on the corner, hands shoved into pockets, looking ridiculously small and ridiculously dear. Her expression is concerned curiosity. When he reaches her he extends a hand and she takes it, falling into step with him. There’s a hotel nearby where Arkady recommended they catch a cab. Though Sarloff remains in jail in France, Arkady is wary of his organization and they’ve all been vigilant about potential followers.

She doesn’t ask. For that, he is especially grateful. She matches her stride to his, which he knows is hard for her. She leans, making sure her shoulder brushes his with each step, tucks her arm inside his. Somehow she actually seems to get closer to him as they walk. At the hotel, he tips a bellman to hail them a cab. When Nell slips into the cab, the momentary absence of her touch feels like a loss. He gets a tighter lock on his emotions. Whatever those are. It’s been a surprisingly long time since he didn’t know how he felt. He gives the driver the address and climbs in next to Nell.

Nell has a lot of questions. She’s guessing Resnikov showed up. The current tensions running through G aren’t the familiar strains of disappointment. No idea what they are, but he’s also not frustrated. He is angry and that could go either way. He isn’t making eye contact, in fact is hardly present. She’ll wait. She leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Waiting.

At the house, the business with the cab transacted, G stops on the bottom step up to the imposing heavily carved door of Arkady’s mansion. Nell is on the step above him before she realizes he’s stopped. She turns to face him, close to having his eyes level with hers. Rare. She smiles. The corner of his mouth tips up, too. Her hand itches to touch him, but something in his expression keeps her still.

She tilts her head and raises a brow. His expression shutters closed. This is exactly what she fears and damn him for making her promise not to run. Her trepidation about this quest blossoms in her chest. Fight or flight and she promised not to run. Fine. She grips the lapels of his jacket and leans the small distance it takes to press her lips to his.

Startled from his reserve, G’s hands settle on her hips. He blinks at her. 

“If I’m not running, then you aren’t either.” She says against his mouth.

“I can’t.” He stops, his gaze casting over her head to the house behind her.

Her hand on his jaw brings his eyes back to hers, coaxes him closer until his forehead rests on hers. “Are you going to talk to me?”

He nods. “Yeah, but…”

“Not Arkady.”

“No.”

“Sam? Hetty?”

He considers for a fraction of a moment. “No.” A whisper.

“Okay.” She leans into a brief kiss, caresses his jaw. “One second.” Instead of moving away from him, she leans her shoulder on his chest and gets her phone. She texts for a moment. “Okay. Come on.” She takes his hand and they go into the house side by side. 

The house is quiet and staff polite as G and Nell make their way through relinquishing coats, declining cocktails, up the stairs, and into the bedroom suite. Living with Arkady in his handful of residences is like being on an extended very lux vacation. Small elements of his staff travel with him from place to place, albeit invisibly. Thus, Arkady's butler makes sure there's ice in a bucket standing on the table in the sitting room with a bottle each of cranberry juice and Hilden still water each night. Crystal vases with fresh cut flowers daily sit on several flat surfaces. Nell's preference for freesias is amply represented. Every time, she smiles. As she’s sure is intended by all of them.

Her smile is brief because G’s animation has once again suspended. "You met him." She says. 

"Yeah." G rubs the back of his head. 

She's not willing to drag information out of him. She watches him stand in the middle of the space between the sitting room and the bedroom for another beat and then moves on past him into the bedroom. She kicks off her shoes. Unbuttoning her sweater, she turns lights out on her way to the bathroom. She peels off the sweater and her jeans while she walks, leaving them in her wake on the floor. Anything to regularize the atmosphere around him. She wraps her hair around her hand and secures it up with a plastic clip she keeps by the sink for the purpose. She runs water in the sink. She tries and fails to imagine what might have happened this evening in the coffee house.

Resnikov and G were in the same place at the same time. She pictures G introducing himself, but push the image past a simple ‘excuse me.’ She takes out her contacts and tosses them in the trash. Tests the water with her hand. She doesn’t wish to find parents. Parent. Whatever. It would not be hard to locate her mother, what would be hard would be having a single thing to say to her. She sighs, splashes her face, turns her attention to washing up for bed.

When she looks up while brushing her teeth, G is leaning on the door jamb. Their eyes meet in the mirror. The heat in his gaze isn't about needing to say something. She rinses her mouth and turns to face him. She enjoys the fierceness with which he wants her. She blinks her surprise at all that invitation, still amazed that such ferocity can come without aggression. It takes her back a step and she's immediately halted by the cabinet she'd forgotten behind her. Her startle brings him across the room. 

G catches Nell's mouth in a demanding kiss, spanning her waist with both hands and lifting her to perch on the counter. She tastes of spearmint and feels like the tidal wave he needs to shed the surreality of the past six hours or forty years. Or perhaps that tidal wave is coming up inside him. He just needs out, release, a moment of freedom, escape from the confusion his life just devolved into. Or perhaps some comfort. Or... "Can I?" He presses the question to her lips. "Would?"

"Yes. Anything." She answers. 

Her voice is raw with some emotion he can’t identify other than the rasp of desire. Her eyes are open and accepting and here. Her pupils blow wide as he watches and her breath hitches. He fists the fabric of her t-shirt and unzips his fly with his free hand. He wants to vanish into her. As she loses her balance to his advance she grabs his shoulders, can’t get secure enough purchase there and locks her hands together behind his neck. Her feet settle on his hips. He nudges the crotch of her panties aside and slips three fingers into her without ceremony. Her gasp is something he could live for. His thumb lands securely on her clit and circles, rewarded with a convulsive thrust of her hips. God, he should get to the bed, or a wall, or Christ, the floor.

She flexes her arms and rests her heels on the counter, still thrusting into his hand, clenching around his fingers. Good enough, he hopes. He slips his hand from her to get his pants out of the way. She curses softly and he chuckles at that. Then, cock free at last, he guides himself into her and drives forward, deep. He locks his hands at the small of her back and fucks into her hard. He drops his head to her shoulder and just drives. 

The precariousness, while not disabling, is mildly distracting. Though he wants to be lost in this, he has to maintain at least a thin line of awareness. Has to at least stay on his feet, hold on. She does a fine job of holding on, too. Sopping wet and clenching around him, she sets her teeth on the cord of muscle at his shoulder. God, he needs more. He groans. She hits an orgasm with suddenness and a whine in the back of her throat. He grins.

This is not a position Nell can hold, the cascade of outrageous pleasure is a momentary compensation and the slippery sound of sex from this angle is filthy in the best way. He may’ve started this, but G isn’t getting what he wants here. She nudges him very slightly away, slips away from him a bit, wriggles back to sitting on the counter, substitutes with her hand around his cock, and looks him over. Aside from the pants around his hips he’s still fully clothed. The hunger in his face fades to wanting and the girth and weight of his cock at the moment suggests some aching. She flicks her thumb over his head, using the slick from her orgasm to facilitate a pump and squeeze. She genuinely prefers fast, dirty, hard sex. And that’s most of what they’ve had the past few months. And not what’s called for in this moment.

 

She hops off the counter and into G’s arms, stretching up for a long kiss. He hums into her mouth, tongues sliding together. She gives his cock a gentle twist and pull that drags his hum to a moan. “Bed.” He mutters. “Please.” 

“Naked.” She murmurs. “Please.”

They strip him, kissing, wandering to the bed as he doffs shoes, socks, pants and she tugs his shirt over his head. She peels off her own underwear and slips between the sheets with him following.

“Trust me.” Nell frames G face with both hands. “This’ll work.” Before he can ask, she’s in motion around him. Her mouth is on his cock and a leg going over his chest as he sucks in a deep breath.

She’s pulled the covers up entirely over them both and… thoughts stutter and halt as the sheer sensory overload grabs him. Her mouth is hot and swirling and sucking and fingers on his balls, a press on his perineum and the jolt of sensations spins through him. She’s kneeling on his shoulders, trapping his hands and dripping just out of reach of his mouth, well… not quite entirely out of reach. His motivation to do anything is extinguished by the astonishing sensation of clenching, gulping, swallowing around his aching cock fit snugly in the back of her throat, sweet God, heat gathers in his groin. Nell’s touch gentles and her grip firms at the base of his cock, checking the urgency, holding him right on the precipice, wanting to come.

The zing of pleasure licks out from his center through his body from toes to fingertips, swamping him in sensations that diffuse and gather with some rhythm she’s set. His awareness spins away into pure physical bliss. The surrender is complete. His orgasm hits with shocking suddenness, curls him upwards despite her weight and she’s swallowing, pumping, caressing him through it. He drowns, pulled under by scorching release, still coming, scorching spurts, until he’s wrecked.

He’s dimly aware of weight shifting and settling on him. Heaven. He wallows in the melted suspension of afterglow. He feels grounded by her weight as much as the satiated contentment in his bones. Probably not supposed to feel gratitude for sex. Probably not what he’s feeling grateful for. Dazed. He’s pleasantly pleased when the word finally presents itself to his addled brain.

Nell drifts up from the depths of intoxication very slowly, her limbs feeling liquid and spent. Deep satisfaction thrums through her with the adrenalin of making G come that hard. She’s sore, in the best way. She rouses enough to slide off him to the bed. They’re both drenched with sweat. She’ll clean them up later. Maybe. Beside her, G turns onto his stomach, head nestled on his arms, eyes closed, looking deceptively peaceful. Sated, is probably a better word for him. She scoots closer, fitting herself to his side.

They lie in bed, breath and hearts slowing to normal, muscles unwinding, perspiration evaporating off damp skin. She trails a hand from the nape of his neck, down his spine, to the curve of his butt. The corner of his mouth she can see lifts 

“M glad I came with you.” She says softly.

The blue eyes open, take her in. “Me, too.”

She touches his cheek, laying her hand along his jaw, capturing him somehow. “Tell me what you need.”

G eyes close for a moment during which Nell struggles to rephrase, start over. Then he’s looking at her again. “Don’t know.” He says. “I ought to be used to this by now.”

She narrows her eyes at him, not understanding which ‘this’ or what ‘now.’ She waits, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone.

“Looking for people is fueled by some kind of assumption.” He begins. “An expectation that they want to be found. Are looking for you.” His nostrils flare as strong emotion reddens his cheeks. She feels his blush flame under her hand. He takes a very careful breath. “Are. Were. Could be… looking for me.” There’s a break under his voice. “But then, the truth is that they are dead. Have died. Or are… were… weren’t.” 

Nell hears all the abandonment she’s ever felt fresh in his words and sees it in his face. “G.” She slips her arm under his neck, cradles his head near. She kisses his forehead.

He nestles into her, kisses her throat, jaw cheek. “Mmmm.” He resettles, his cheek on her breastbone. He takes in a huge breath and she expects a sigh, but the air comes back out slowly in a long steadying exhale. “He’s called Garrison these days. He came in around nine, chatted with the guy at the bar, talked to the waiter, took a table two away from me. I didn’t really recognize him, but he had the coin.”

Nell curls her fingers at his neck, petting the soft hair at his nape. She feels him swallow.

“He walked up to my table and told me I knew who he was.” He recounts the conversation with Garrison for her carefully, as if making an especially detailed report. He’s an excellent observer and recalls everything from words to details of Garrison’s clothing.  

Nell feels his shock at being recognized and known. She measures the dimension of silence where there ought to be something about why a man who knows his children are out in the world, knows his daughter has died, and knows his son is alive and alone continues his own path without offering any acknowledgment or help. The silence on this topic is wide and high. She’s not curious in the least about Garrison’s permission to hate him. She might. She decides that having a parent who abandoned you to go do good works might be better than having one who abandons you to go buy crack. But, not having that parent or any parent is still not being chosen by the person you want most in life to choose you. It is still being alone through no fault of your own. 

G presses his forehead against her chest and kisses a trail along the side of her breast. Will retreat into making love again if she doesn’t do something. She lifts his face to hers. “So the Greg Callahan legend I built for you was right on the mark, huh?” She puts a little smugness in her voice.

It takes him a long moment to come around and make the connection between the names Grisha and Gregory. His smile is slow and broad, a grin, really. “S’always been my favorite cover.”

“Yes. I know.” She says. He defaulted to that cover frequently over the past four years and when he used it to date Joelle Taylor Nell extinguished it. “And no, you can’t have it back.”

As desired, he chuckles, true amusement in his eyes. ‘Well, damn. So many names and I can’t have the one I like best.”

Nell plants a kiss between his sparkling eyes. “I’m sorry, G.” She whispers.

“You don’t have to be.” He responds automatically, seeking some distance from his ranging emotions.

“I know. Still am.” She says. “You should be, too, G. I’m sorry your mom was killed. I’m sorry your sister died. I’m sorry your father left you.”

G absorbs each thought. Each a blow that flickers behind his eyes. She wishes none of this was true for him, yet it is and there’s really no getting past any of it. She firms her lips and blinks but keeps her gaze steady. She remembers him lifting her from the floor and assuring her she will be fine. She wasn’t in many ways, but she believed him and so in other ways she was. She certainly can’t pick him up, per se. But perhaps she can keep him here. She frames his face with her hands. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

G shrugs, as much as one can whilst lying in bed. He passes a hand over his face. “Seems it’s never mattered what I want.” There is a bit of revelation in his voice threaded through his familiar fatalism.

“Matters to me.” Not what she was expecting to say.

“Yeah?”

“Seems.”

A corner of his mouth lifts.

“Probably always has. Even when we didn’t know it.” She muses. “Probably gonna keep mattering to me.” She wrinkles her nose. “S’that okay?”

“It is.” He wraps her closer, tucking her beside him where she normally sleeps. He sighs.

“What now?” She asks. He concentrates on the warmth of her breath over his skin.

“Well, I want to go home.” He admits. As much to himself as to her. “But I don’t even know what the hell that means anymore.” In direct contrast to the twist of sorrow in his gut, he feels the curve of her smile against his chest. He contemplates asking her what that’s about. Not that he doesn’t see all the weird ironies here. He closes his eyes against having to decide whether to be amused or irritated. The thickness of the tension between shutting down and grieving is impenetrable. He can’t do both. Neither is particularly useful.

Nell contracts around him, arms and legs tightening, pelvis tilting closer yet. “Sleep on it.” She murmurs. He wonders fleetingly if he said anything aloud. The insistence of her hug is a powerful thing, towing him out of himself. He adjusts, she tightens, he wraps her until there’s nothing but pressure and scent and soft beating heart and silky hair. He chuffs a breath of amused release. Sleep on it. Passive escape. Her specialty. She tightens again. “Shhh, shhh.” She shushes as if she hears him thinking. She continues making soft soothing susurrations, a pattern he can nearly identify. He listens closely, wonders if she’s coding, lets the sound and puffs of air on his chest become a melody, lets his body ease, lets sleep take him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still with me on this, thank you. It looks as if this story may finally reach an end in the near future:) Can't tell y'all how much I appreciate your patience. Leave a comment, or shout at me over on Tumblr (www.tumblr.com/blog/dianessus)


	7. Chapter 7

When Nell wakes up alone, she doesn’t think much of it. G hasn’t truly slept since they arrived in Moscow. It’s one thing to learn that someone who should’ve didn’t offer what you want. It’s another to learn they won’t give what you need. In that way, she’s beginning to appreciate ten years in the same foster home with someone who did her best to love her and provide for her. And she wonders if Resnikov, or Garrison, or whoever he is or was, can say that he provided G’s needs as best he could. But she can’t fathom a world where that’d be true. 

Nell is intensely curious about her parents. At the same time, she has always known they didn’t have the wherewithal to care about her. For all she knows, the person who accidentally fathered her doesn’t know she exists. She could potentially figure out who he is given her access to information. Having met his father, G’s disappointment comes off him in waves. She has no idea what to do with him. Or even what she wants to do with him. Or if he’s her job at all. Not a helpful train of thoughts.

When G also isn’t at the breakfast table, she’s mildly irritated. Arkady’s undivided attention is nice, though. Over eggs and coffee, she sketches the previous night for him and they agree G isn’t going to want to talk to anyone any time soon. Arkady relays having heard from Anna, who is happily back in LA and angling for a law enforcement job. She enjoys the unwieldy novelty of reading a physical newspaper in Russian while Arkady chuckles at her occasional consternation of a page that doesn’t want to fold or a colloquialism she can’t quite fathom. When Sam calls complaining he can’t get hold of G, she’s stuck going over the meet with Resnikov in G’s stead, again.

Much of the morning has passed when Hetty messages that they’re expected at work. Nell dutifully makes travel arrangements for early evening. It’s a twelve-hour flight that might as well be accomplished overnight. Arkady springs for first class tickets, which makes Nell laugh. At every step she forwards the information to G’s phone. When the message containing the airline e-ticket comes back as undeliverable, she stops.

Undeliverable? She taps, swipes, finds nothing. No indication whatsoever that the phone exists. He’s wiped the phone and dumped it.

Nell stares at her own device for long moments considering the possibilities. She’s patiently not attempted to locate him as a gesture of respecting his need for a bit of privacy. The estate is modestly large and she begins by checking that the vehicles are all accounted for; they are. She’s tried hard to avoid imagining being in G’s shoes at present. She has no desire to even conjure up that level of abandonment. She glances around the bedroom carefully. G didn’t take much if anything. She wouldn’t normally hunt through his things, but now she makes a quick journey through his suitcase, checks the drawers and surfaces. He took 2 passports and a gun. He’s either gone to see his father, again, or he’s run. She blows a breath through her nose in irritation and assumes he can access money. The coin that carried him to his father is on the bedside table and she picks it up, flipping it in her hand, thinks. Running.

For several long moments, she stands still clutching the heavy coin. She bites her lip. For twenty-four hours she’s been watching him try not to shut down. Unsuccessfully. She waits for the cold wash of abandonment that doesn’t come. _Don’t run_ , he said. And she hasn’t. He has. The first time this happened she’d assumed he left her. But, it turned out that wasn’t the truth of what’d happened. And she wasn’t old enough to go after him. She sits on the edge of the bed at a loss for what’s next. Does she let him go, wait? Does she hunt for him, follow him? 

She finds Arkady reclined on a sofa in the television lounge. It’s a comfortable room, surprisingly small. Lots of leather and wood, some kind of sports event on the television. He mutes the sound when he catches sight of her. “What happened?” He pats the sofa, inviting her to sit. Though he’s not obvious about it, he glances at the door again, probably expecting to see G behind her.

“He’s gone.” She crosses the room to sink into the cushions. “Can I… may I use your system to track him?” She’s being polite. She can hack into the network and do whatever she wants. He grins and inclines his head. “Of course.” 

Nell watches him and waits a bit. She is more familiar with the resurgence of Russia’s nationalism than the average citizen. Until recently it hasn’t been an area of expertise, but she’ll remedy that when she gets the chance. She has a relatively clear understanding that the KGB didn’t die, rather transformed into something equally powerful over time. She doesn’t have as accurate an understanding of the underground as she’ll need to sort out what G’s father has been doing for forty years. “Batya, can you ask…” She smooths a hand over her skirt. “Resnikov and G didn’t exchange any way to contact each other. Can you be the connection between them for a while?” She hands him the heavy coin.

Arkady’s brows rise. “G and Niki want me to go between?” Incredulousness fills his face and voice.

“No.” She says. “I want you to.”

Arkady sits on the edge of the desk and considers her carefully. There is a fond trust between them they’ve neither acknowledged aloud. Nell doesn’t look away, nor does she say ‘please.’ He inclines his head once. She nods and stands. Impulse takes her to him and lands a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.” She whispers.

She watches the blue blip of G’s tracker appear in the Ukraine near Luts’k. She bites her lip and reconsiders his wanting to go home. Knowing where he is and where he’s going isn’t exactly deciding what to do. She idly begins coding, hacking into the NSA access to the tracker recognition and re-identifying it. It is easy work, consuming just a corner of her mind as she measures her inclination to find him against her habit of obedience. The message arrives from Eric, inquiring about Callen’s whereabouts. In that moment, as she doesn’t answer, as she systematically makes it impossible for Eric to continue looking for them, she knows she’s already decided.

~

The place is deadly cold and starkly beautiful. It’s also home. G climbs off the motorcycle extremely grateful for the climbing gear that’s keeping him warm. The handful of villages on the Chillia Veche, on the far reaches of the Danube, feel as far from the world as one can get. Not much changes here. He understands why his parents parked their tiny family here, hoping for the safety that might come with such remoteness and the support from Clara’s family. He walks along the wide stone path that will eventually lead him to the house he lived in with his mother, sister, and grandparents. That his father visited.

The last time G came here was nearly twenty years ago when he was stationed in Moscow for the CIA. There were people here then who remembered his grandparents. He doubts that can be true anymore. To his left is an old homestead, long empty, ancient looking with its stone walls, thatch roof, and intricate beams. Is it his attachment to this place that makes it impossible for him to create a home anywhere else? 

The house sits tucked up into a fold of the land. Built of stone and dense wood, it’ll probably outlast several more generations. Twenty years ago the house was empty, his grandparents had died and a relative was coming to live here at the beginning of the summer. This afternoon, smoke rises from the chimney and the windows glow warmly in the approaching dusk. A pair of tricycles stand near the front steps. He walks up the path and steps, and knocks without expectation.

The young woman who answers the door greets him with a welcoming smile. Taken aback, he hastens to explain that he used to live here. They shift from speaking Russian to Romanian, Anica, she introduces herself. She clearly expects him, he tilts his head, wary confusion prickling along his spine.  He sees movement behind her, his awareness sharpening. Anica opens the door wider, admonishing him to please come inside. Nell steps from the kitchen, her face solemn. The climate has reddened her cheeks prettily and her eyes reflect firelight and affection. G stops on the doorstep.

Nell comes around Anica and stretches up to kiss his chin. “Hi. Come in. It’s cold.” She tugs at his arm, bringing him over the threshold into a flurry of motion. Anica ushers them out of the foyer and into a wide, bright kitchen, the source of the cheerful hearth. She cheerily talks a mile a minute. He has a flash of his grandmother and mother laughing in this room, the fire crackling behind them. Anica is explaining inheriting the house from her grandparents. She’s making tea. It is jarring, familiar and strange in the same breath. 

G narrows his eyes, trying and failing to fit Nell into his picture of this house. “You tracked me.”

“I did,” Nell admits softly with a lifted shoulder.

“But.” G opens his coat with rote efficiency. He never doubted she would. He’d just expected an angry confrontation in LA.

“Figured you had to be coming here. You stopped in Constanza or I’d be behind you.” Nell sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. She no longer looks like Gemma Kolchev, no make-up or jewelry, hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her eyes are huge. She wears biker boots and he wonders just how exactly she got here. 

The kitchen is warm against cold cheeks and hands. G shrugs the coat off, feels something thaw inside of him. He didn’t think anyone knew him well enough to find this place without guidance. He’s curiously pleased she has.

He shifts his attention to Anica when she puts a hot mug in his hand. Clearly, some part of the story of him preceded him here with Nell. Anica’s smiles are wide and welcoming. Together they sort out that her grandfather was his grandmother’s nephew. They stare at each other more closely, trying to decide if they’re related. Surely they are cousins of some sort. G wonders where she was when he was here last, a toddler somewhere in the villages, secure in her life rooted to this far flung place.

The house is tidy and comfortable, an enamel table on the back porch brings back memories he hasn’t touched in decades. Anica calls her grandfather. While she makes the call, G levels a measuring gaze at Nell. “Why’re you here?” He cuts past wondering how she got here.

A complicated mix of expressions cross her face. Her smile is subtle and soft. There’s a laugh hidden somewhere in her eyes. She grips his hand tightly for a second then lets go. “My understanding is it’s not entirely safe for you here. I figured I’d have your back while you do whatever needs doing.”

Iancu Calinescu, who at ninety-six is spry enough to walk over to see the interlopers, bustles into the house and walks directly to G. He takes G’s chin in hand and stares. Yes, he decides, this is his cousin Clara’s boy. How is it that he wasn’t killed by the Comescu clan as the family has always thought? G shares a handful of half truths about being adopted, growing up in the United States, not knowing his name until recently. Far from civilization they may be, but the wizened man sitting beside G isn’t entirely fooled, though he accepts the information with grace. Pointed questions about G’s sister Amelia - Amy - about the CIA, about Nikita, eventually has G surrendering more details. He explains how his name became abbreviated to G Callen, beyond easy reconstruction for a boy who’d become thoroughly American. 

The old man shakes his head. “So, only you and Niki survive. And hardly that.” He pats G’s arm absently. “Still always in harm’s way. Some choices simply pass from generation to generation. Yet, something brings you all the way back here.” The older man speculates that while it may be true that the Comescu’s believe him dead, G cannot stay. News travels fast in the Veche. Especially news of outsiders or newcomers. G allows as how he wasn’t expecting to find anyone who knew who he was here.

“Everyone here knows everyone.” Iancu scolds. “Someone kept you far from here for a purpose.”

Anica agrees. “News would eventually go to Constanza. Comescu’s don’t come here.” She says the name with some venom. “But, they would come for you. You are the last.”

The clash of believing strangers are more interested in finding him to kill him than his father is in finding him at all fuzzes G’s ability to think for a long moment. Blood feuds and espionage. The proximities of hatred and the distance of love. A gnarled hand grips his, surprising him out of his confusion.

Iancu’s blue eyes are ice clear and sharp. “What is your name?”

G’s been wondering that forever.

“Your full name.” Iancu demands.

“G.” He hesitates, starts over thoughtfully. “Grisha Alexandrovich Nikolaev Calinescu Resnikov.” He’s never said his full name aloud. The sounds are both lovely and alien. He shrugs again. “G Callen.” He adds.

Iancu nods. “Yes. It is fine for you to be G Callen, to be safe, to have life wherever you want. You could not have that here. Not when your mother was gone. You can, of course, choose the way they have in the past and go kill some Comescu’s. But, Clara tried very hard to make sure you live a long happy life. She may have failed, at first, but you can choose now, make her a success.” 

His mother’s eyes were this same blue. G nods, wishing anything were as easy as that.

Anica’s small sons wake from their nap, delighted to find their great-grandfather. Conversation turns to benign reminiscences about an extended family G has imagined, but never sought. Nell scoots her chair next to G’s, making space at the table. More tea is served and the little boys busy themselves with crackers and cheese. The room fills with voices that are familiar with each other and the rhythms of a daily routine. G rests a hand on the back of Nell’s chair and plays idly with her hair, as if somehow she can anchor him in the strangeness.  

Iancu smiles contentedly. “Tomorrow, my grandson will take you across the river to Izmayil. You can take a bus to Odesa.”   

There are four rustic hotels in the Veche and men carry automatic rifles over their shoulders with certain comfort. The rural grittiness of the place underscores why G can feel as easily at home in the backwoods of West Virginia as the mean streets of LA. They are expected to sleep at Iancu’s ranch, less than a mile away, under the watchful eyes of his sons and nephews.

Anica and her family join the Calinescu extended family for a crowded and noisy supper meal. The family is surprised to find that anyone from Clara’s family is still alive. The legend is that the Comescu’s were able to extinguish the branch of the family, with some help from the Russian mafia. The fact of G’s arrival here with his girlfriend is irrefutable proof of the Comescu’s utter failure. And cause for considerable celebration.

G wants there to be something familiar about all this. Instead, he feels as if he’s on an undercover mission, wary of every breath of information, and purposefully out of place. Despite their embrace of a long thought lost cousin, these people are too distantly related to become something more. He feels their customs, ways of speaking, of touching, wash politely around him. If anything it’s exactly like being in a new foster family, waiting in vain to belong. 

G has a living a parent, although the concept is impossibly slippery. He has a name, although the rhythm of it is ungainly awkward. He mistakenly thought he needed, not wanted, both those things to be whole. Having them does nothing to bridge the sharp gaps of his history or bring any sense of belonging. Quite the opposite. What small contentment he built has been stolen. He doesn’t hate Garrison, he hates the fresh sense of dislocation, the circumstance, the tiny shard of himself that cannot accept having been chosen as part of a sacrifice. Try as he might, G cannot put words into Garrison’s mouth. His memory is flawless. Always has been. Even when it doesn’t serve him well, when it hurts, it’s accurate. It seems entirely possible that Garrison, too, is part of an extended family somewhere in Russia or perhaps Poland that would welcome G into its web.

Nell watches G navigate his odd almost homecoming with a strange mixture of care and curiosity. He is well hidden in the depths of his well-crafted reserve and perhaps a thin veneer of left over legend, but she spies him there, realizing with relief how well she knows him. His gaze drifts to hers with reassuring frequency.

The ranch is a bustling cattle enterprise, run by Iancu’s sons and grandsons. After dinner, a young man escorts G and Nell from the large main house, through the rear yards. The guest accommodations are a series of three stone huts, used for hired farm hands during the busiest seasons.

In certain ways, being a stranger in the Veche reminds Nell of being homeless. Civilization is close enough to touch, but the next running water, toilet, food, electrical outlet isn’t obvious. The guest/bunk hut, she’s not sure how to classify the small building, is two snug rooms about the size of the tiny flat in Paris. Someone laid a welcome fire, made the bed, set out plenty of towels and a heap of soap bars. The bungalow is snug, warm, clean, and without electricity. Three out of four is pretty good. She shucks the mittens and begins unbuckling her coat while toeing her boots off.

“Thanks for coming.”

She turns to meet G’s eyes and meets a rueful smile.

“Can NCIS track us?” He asks.

She frowns with a tiny head shake. “Not an amateur, you know.” She chides. She gets his first true smile in weeks. “Though, I suppose Hetty could guess pretty easily.” She considers aloud. 

“Yeah. That’s never worried me.” He gathers their outerwear into a chair by the door. He grips the front of her sweater and pulls her to him. “Hi.” His eyes are warm, his expression bemused.

“Hi.” She folds into his embrace, resting her head on his chest. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

He looks down into her face. “Letting…” His brows gather.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be okay with me tagging along.” She deliberately keeps her tone light.

“Well,” he muses. “Since it was you…”

“Find what you’re looking for?” She asks.

His expression grows solemn. It feels as if she sees right through him and knows his father didn’t, doesn’t, want him. Has seen. Yet, she hasn’t done any of the things he’d expected. No recriminations. No demands. No leaving. “I guess so.” He sighs and pulls her close. “I just… this is where we were a family.” He’s dealt with feeling lonely plenty, but alone simply doesn’t have much value attached to it. Orphans make the best agents. Useless. Meaningless. Damn it. “How do you do this? How do you make a place in a world where you’re not wanted?” He asks. “Where that’s okay. When…” His words drop into the quiet like pebbles into still water, rippling the tension between them.

She chuffs a half laugh. “I don’t know, G. Wish I did.” She glances away, looking into the middle distance over the curve of his arm. “Find a way to be useful. Or hope someone comes along who wants you. Or both. I don’t know, I haven’t…” She presses her palms flat to his back. “Law enforcement helps. Or being a doctor, maybe. The military, I guess. Everyone’s a little broken. It helps to know that, too. I’m not very good at this. I haven’t had…” She pulls back to look at him. “I don’t know. I don’t succeed very often. Only twice. And once it was you.”

His breath catches at her words. His eyes darken with expanding pupils. She leans up to meet his lips, her hand moving past his jaw, around the back of his head. The kiss is gentle and sweet. He bends to her, deepening the contact, parting his lips over hers to press into her mouth. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers.

She takes a breath, leans back to see his face, frowns.

“Shutting you out. I’m sorry.” He holds her gaze. “I feel too empty for much of anything.”

She presses another soft kiss to his mouth. “Please just don’t get yourself killed to prove something.” She’s been wanting to say this to him for weeks. 

“I wasn’t…” He starts. “No. I won’t. I’m sorry.” He stands, pulling her into a deeper kiss. For long moments he rediscovers the softness of her acceptance, the light scent of myrrh. He weighs her hands on his chest, measures the curve of her waist. She tastes lightly of bergamot and grapefruit. She’s remarkably present. He sinks into the kiss until he has to breathe. 

Her gaze is wide and intent. “You went to Constanza. To the beach where your mother was killed. Where you know people still want to kill you.”

“Yes.” 

She presses her lips together and moves away from him to better see him. Firelight flashes gold in her eyes. “What’re you going to do here?” 

“According to my great uncle, nothing more.” He allows. “I guess I wanted to look at everything again.”

“And we leave before dawn?” 

“Probably best.” He says.

She gives a curt nod, the lines of her mouth softening. “Then we should probably get some rest.”

~

It is frightening what Nell can do with a smartphone and a decent internet connection. The day begins with the moon rising over the Danube, is mostly comprised of a lengthy trek through increasingly urban surroundings, includes a meal and a nap a Heathrow, a nearly twelve-hour flight, and then finally ends in the surreal swirl of LAX just past supper time the next day. Though it’s always easier traveling west and they manage to say hydrated, daylight seems to go on forever.

Nell watches G as if he’s a bomb on a motion sensor. It’s both comforting and interesting to be under her surveillance. Her attention is calm and heavy, holds him present while they maneuver through half the world. He’s pleasantly surprised to be caught in her wake. He would’ve hopped a military transport back from Germany instead of flying first class. He appreciates her distinction between using subterfuge to move about without surveillance and using technology to do the same thing in significant comfort. He wonders who’s paying for all of this. As they move west and south they peel off layers of clothing, eventually stopping to buy a suitcase. Amusement tinges their on-going search for real food and attempts to read or sleep. Despite the bustle of constant movement, G enjoys the gravity of Nell’s presence.

They’re both sleepy when they finally get a cab to the house, traveling in relative quiet. He notices she hasn’t contacted anyone at NCIS. He hasn’t either. Plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or the next day. He unlocks his door with a sense of dislocation so strong he doesn’t really quite recognize anything.

Nell’s hand slips into his as the door closes. Her fingers between his are slender, her hand small and warm, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. Her watchfulness has fallen away for the first time since they left for Paris. The loss is tangible. He’s torn between wanting rest and wanting her. He wonders if there’s a conflict there. She toes off her shoes, leaning on him for balance. Then, she’s gone, down the hallway toward the bedroom and out of sight.

He takes in the chill of the sparsely furnished rooms and for the first time understands the mild headshake of visitors. This is the perch of someone intent on leaving.  He’s glad to be here because he’s travel weary. He hasn’t stopped moving in months. It seems as if he’s left his transience somewhere over Europe with his other illusions. He’s not home. But, perhaps he’s stilled.

When he reaches the bedroom he hears Nell in the shower, which is invitation enough. Peeling off his clothing, he wonders where the rest of their luggage is. No doubt, Nell has made the necessary arrangements. The bathroom is steamy and she’s in the shower humming. He taps on the glass before he opens the shower.

When G steps under the spray of water, Nell is lathering up her hair. G grabs the soap and joins in the washing Nell efforts, running appreciative hands over the slick planes of ribs and around her hips to the curve of her ass and back.

Refueled and refreshed, Nell feels a welcome surge of combined energy and arousal flow through her. The gorgeous man in front of her, focused so intently on her, makes her mouth water. She rinses soap away. “My turn.” She says.

“Your turn for what?” G pauses with a hand on Nell’s hip.

“My turn to wash you.” Nell says. She lathers up both hands and starts with G’s thick crop of curly hair. Facing G with arms over his head, Nell can’t help leaning forward to kiss his perfect mouth. G kisses in return, hand shifting to the small of Nell’s back. Their hips brush together and Nell moans softly at the contact. She sluices soap and water down G’s neck and across his shoulders. There is, she thinks, plenty of time to enjoy the man in her hands before they go to sleep this evening. Nell nuzzles a line of kisses down G’s chest. She contemplates asking him to take this to the bed when his fingers brush down over her belly and caress through the hair between her legs. The flash of wanting ratchets to need in seconds. She hooks her leg over his arms and pulls herself into his arms.

She climbs him with astonishing ease, and G experiences a ridiculous surge of gratitude under the tide of desire as he pins her against the wall and buries his fingers in the warm, slick, center of her. She clenches around his fingers and a low moan accompanies the exploration. He chuckles, wonders how long he can hold her up. He fits his cock to her entrance and the combined thrust and slide into her reduces his mind to a blissful white blank of pleasure, given and received.

 Nell arches into his thrust with a thirsty groan and grinds. The vibration of his chuckle is contagious and she feels the laugh rising up with the delight. They won’t be able to stand here long. She tilts her hips and tightens around him, letting her awareness sink completely into her body. The orgasm sings in her belly and spreads until she sighs with it. “God, G.”

Three more thrusts and he’s coming hard. Her legs wrap around his hips, holding tight, rocking them through the crest of it, his hand hits the wall for balance. “Damn it.” He whispers.

Nell blows out a giddy breath. Her thighs tremble. “G. Put me down.”

He bows his head to her shoulder and gathers her close for a second, then he takes a step backwards and sets her feet on the tiles. “Good god, I need to lie down.” He huffs.

She laughs and turns off the water. 

“Once I’m lying down, we can do that again.” He intones.

For them both, sex is about thrust and rhythm, typically intense and fast. The deliberation G brings to bed is new and overwhelming. Slow hands, followed with a warm mouth. Quiet murmurs of surrender and delight. Nell tries to return the favor, but soon she’s stretched taught with achy desire and begging. “Please, G. Please.” She feels his grin on the crease where her leg meets her center, just shy of where she needs him.

“Love you.” He murmurs. His hands frame her hips and hold her relatively still.

She whines her pleasure infused frustration. “G.” She is nearing oversensitive ticklish when he arches over her and slides up into her, flush and hard. Her orgasm hits with breath stealing immediacy, searing through her from center to fingertips. G keeps a steady pace, prolonging the wet, clenched, shivering aftermath. Her body subsides to liquid before he comes again with a yell, filling her with heat and passion.

He slows, finally draping himself on her. She kisses his neck and chin, hands gripping his shoulders tightly before she wriggles away and out from under him. She continues kissing his shoulder and back. “That was good.” She whispers. 

“Really good.” He mumbles into the sheets. His limbs are heavy, his muscles still twitching with release. “Really, really good.”

In a distant corner of her mind, Nell considers getting up for a washcloth. The rest of her sinks into the pillows and eases into sleep.

~ 

Nell sifts through incoming intel on two men G and Sam are chasing on foot through the warren of the docks through containers stacked three high. Eric has hijacked the dock security and has a relatively comprehensive, if distant view. A handful of information flashes up on her screens as facial recognition pings. “White shirt is Davis Keller, ex-SEALs.” She says into coms.

“And circling back behind your position.” Eric warns.

Sam grunts his displeasure at both pieces of information. “Where’s…”

“Still up ahead. You guys might want to split up.” Eric says, tapping at his keyboard and bringing up a closer view.

Nell glances over as G and Sam put their backs to each other. Another handful of intel pops up on her screens. “Marty and Kensi are still four minutes out.”

The op is a scramble of difficult opponents and even more difficult location. Nell sends intel in the form of texts and photos while Eric interprets surveillance and provides guidance.  Marty and Kensi arrive ahead of LAPD SWAT. Once the area is secured it becomes more straightforward to stalk their quarry, but no more successful. These guys are equally well trained. Throwing caution and direction to the winds, G draws their opponents out by breaking cover, grazed by a bullet in the process. One is killed, one arrested.

Nell cannot keep from checking on the growing crimson stain on G’s flank. As the aftermath winds up with the arrival of the crime scene unit, his shirt is stuck to his ribs and the stain has seeped into his jeans. Hetty materializes in tech-ops and crisply orders him to check in with the EMT’s on the scene before going home. Instead, he returns to OSP, arguing with Sam all the way about whether or not they’d have ended the standoff without him getting shot 

“Miss Jones.” Hetty snaps. “Meet him in the locker room and see to that.”

Nell hops up and takes the stairs at a trot. Once in the basement, she hears G before she sees him. 

“Cut it out.” There’s an edge to his voice.

“Then stand still.” Sam’s voice stretches to the limits of its patience. “G, let me look at that.”

“A scratch.”

“Then let me see it.”

“I’ll clean up in the shower.”

Sam’s hands are on his hips. G stands behind his locker door. Nell steps into the room, catching their attention. “Hetty sent me.”

“Good.” Sam huffs. “You can have him.” He closes his own locker door and rolls his eyes as he passes Nell. “Good luck.”

Nell walks to G and closes the locker door enough to see him fully. The blood that’s dried on his side has plastered his t-shirt to his skin, caked brown. His jeans are open at the fly where brighter crimson seeps into his jockey’s. His expression is closed, but not the irritation she expected. He’s hurt. Detached. Dangerous.

“Come.” She heads for the showers. Using a warm wet towel, she soaks the t-shirt from his skin and peels it away. When the fabric separates from skin, G leans back against the tiles, muscles relaxing if slightly. The bullet left a long ragged slice along a rib. Not a scratch. Not a puncture. She pauses because a hospital makes sense. She gazes up.

His gaze is endless blue, pupils wide with pain. His expression is mild surprise. He really didn’t think it was this bad. “Well, shit.” 

“Indeed.” She agrees. The afternoon was tense and long. She’s not reserved the energy to argue him or his ego into accepting any medical intervention. She sighs. “Lie down.” She points to the shower bench. The bench isn’t long enough to stretch out on and G eyes it warily. Nell rolls up a towel for his head, nudging him to sit and lean until he’s lying on his back, legs propped on the tile wall. “Rest. I’ll be right back.”

His eyes are closed when she returns with the first aid kit from the field box. She cleans the wound with lots of running water and betadine. She presses the edges of the wound closed with gentle fingers, tapes it closed with butterfly strips, holding it with her hand.

“Stitches.” She says softly. “Hospital? 

He grunts. Thinks. “You do it.”

She doesn’t remind him how much less this would hurt with proper sedation or even stronger numbing. The last time she stitched him was a long time ago, a cut, before she’d known him. She uncaps the topical anesthesia and applies a thin layer of gel across the length of the wound. He’d be more comfortable on the floor, but she’s got a better angle for stitching here. She locates the needle pack and suturing thread. She applies another layer of gel. She’s seen the results when he stitches himself.

It will take fifteen minutes for the anesthesia to do its work well enough for her to be willing to do hers. Just her luck they’ve figured out she can do this, will do this. She runs her tongue over the back of her teeth, resisting the urge to tut or scold. Marty might be more averse to medical professionals than G, and he’s usually the one being stitch up down here, chattering away, because adrenaline loosens his tongue instead of tying it. It was with a long slice up Marty’s calf that they’d learned to use the gel this way. She’d refused to stitch it and he’d begged, using four layers of analgesic balm to numb the area enough that she conceded.

She watches the adrenalin finally leach out of G, a small tremor visible in his hands. His jaw clenches against it and she strokes his thigh, leans her head on him. The tickle of blood from the edges of his wound are slowing, even with just the cleaning and temporary hold of butterflies. His hand drops to ruffle through her hair. The gash is not pulling the bandages apart. She soothes on another thin layer of anesthetic gel and G doesn’t flinch. Almost there. 

Her stitches are neat and even, the knots square. She takes her time to place simple interrupted sutures along the seven inch wound, leaving the butterfly tape as additional support. While the surface of his skin is nicely numb, each stitch bites down into the unprotected dermis briefly and his breath hitches. When she’s done she spreads one more layer of the numbing gel on his skin. She nudges him up, watching her work carefully for any sign of puckering of gapping, but there’s none. She tapes on a gauze pad, uses a wide elastic support bandage to wrap his rib cage, certain the wound can use the support and hoping he hasn’t cracked a rib.

She observes her handiwork, bottom lip between her teeth to hold back her complaints about the risks he’s taking these days. She also holds onto the instructions to change that bandage later tonight and check the stitches in the morning. She says nothing about the signs of infection to look for. G knows all of this and more. 

G leans back on the tiles, still, eyes closed, while she packs up the first aid kit, marks the use of the needle and thread so they can be replaced, disposes of the needles and scraps of paper from the bandages. The last time she did this for him, she didn’t know him. Now it feels like he doesn’t know himself. Tempted as she is to stay and help him finish cleaning up, she leaves him to it.

When she arrives upstairs, the office is quiet. She surprised to find that it’s after seven. She climbs up to tech-ops and sees that Eric has shut down her systems. All is quiet, the main action having moved to the night crew in the boat house.  Her shoulders hurt from the combination of tension during the op and hunching over to repair her lover. She sinks into her chair and closes her eyes. It feels good to rest, but her brain is chock full of churning thoughts left over from the too full day. There will be a mountain of paperwork from today’s op since it involved former military personnel and death. She might as well get started on it. G will be awhile in the shower and dressing.

From the reports on the day’s events she drifts into updating the coding for a database she uses to gather news. A request from DoD to analyze a cold case piques her curiosity and she opens the case up for a look that becomes a hunt through old electronic intel from Cuba of all places. She has no idea what time it is when the smell of curry snags at her subconscious.

A cardboard container slides onto the console beside her and she looks up. G smiles. “Dinner.” He offers a fork. She takes the fork, her stomach tumbling over with heretofore unnoticed hunger. She picks up the box and takes a bite. The curry is spicy and warm, lentils and chicken over rice. She hums her pleasure.

G sinks into Eric’s chair very slowly and digs into a similar box in his hand. He’s pale, his features drawn. She’d momentarily forgotten she didn’t work late anymore because he’s sleeping here again. She wrinkles her nose and takes another bite of the deliciously welcome food. “Thank you.”

G shakes his head, swallows. “I’m thanking you.”

“You don’t…” she stops. Starts again, “you’re welcome.”

She nods. “Do you ever take instructions?” She ventures into the quiet.

“I do.” He admits, a rueful smile playing around his lips. He eats for long moments before looking up and catching her gaze. “Sometimes.”

She sets the curry container on the console. Her fingers caress the keyboard there from habit and for comfort. “Have you taken any pain meds? You should be at home, resting.” She chides.

G reaches and snares her box, peering in and spearing some chicken with satisfaction. He continues eating what remains of her meal.

He gives his head a bemused shake. He tucks the empty boxes together and scoops up her fork. He gets to his feet, moving slowly. Nell shuts her systems down again and follow him to the car.

“I’ll drive.” She puts her hand on the driver’s side door. He glares at her to no avail and moves around to the passenger seat.

G lies on the couch with an arm over his eyes. His ribs ache dully. He considers going to bed. The effort it would take to move hardly seems worth the trouble if it’d bother Nell, though. No reason for both of them to lose the night’s sleep. He’ll be home tomorrow on enforced leave post injury and she has to go to work. Exhaustion pins him to the sagging cushions. He drifts in and out of sleep for a bit and thinks it’d truthfully be nice to have some company. He considers tapping the liquor cabinet, a thought worth sitting up for.

He pours four fingers of scotch into a water glass. The first two swallows heat nicely from tongue to belly. He sinks into the cushions as the alcohol hits his system in the most pleasant way. He knows better than to drink in order to get drunk. He also knows better than to draw fire as a combat strategy. He smiles grimly and swats those thoughts away into welcome the buzz of numbness. His physical discomfit fades to a background thrum. What the alcohol doesn’t help with is the emotional turmoil skimming beneath all his surfaces.

Nell wakes to a clink of glass against glass. G hasn’t been to bed. He’s hurting and doesn’t want to keep her awake. It’s been four awkward weeks of trying to move past his visit with his father. That’s he’s lying on the couch with a gunshot wound is just another symptom. She listens but doesn’t hear anything else. But, she’s awake. More silence. “G.” She whispers his name like a curse, more to herself than to him. “Obstinate.” She mutters, sitting. “Insidious.” In the hallway, she smells the liquor. “Menace.”  There’s a chuckle across the room. “I suspect pain meds would work better.” She turns on the table lamp beside him. He squints up at her. He smells faintly of stale sweat, sleep, and scotch. “Let me look at you.” 

She squats level with him. G winces as he tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. She reaches to give him an assist, pulling the fabric up, cataloging scrapes and bruises as she drops it to the floor. She traces fond fingers over his ribs. She unsticks the paper tape holding the gauze to his wound. It looks painful, but otherwise, the edges of the wound meet neatly. No bleeding recently, no signs of infection. “Excellent work, if I say so myself.” She murmurs. “Come to bed. I’ll put on a fresh bandage.”

Fingers on her chin startle her into looking up. She’s snared by a crystal blue gaze. “Tell me how to do this.” He says.

She blinks. He’s clearly not talking about bed. What, then?

“Can we stop?” He asks.

Wary surprise flits across her features. “Stop?”

“Can we just stop feeling sorry for me?” The curiosity written on his features balances the inherent accusation of his words.

“I don’t feel sorry for you.” She sits across from him, her keen interest boring through him. “I don’t know how to not care if you’ve been hurt. Not your body. Not your heart. You hurt makes me unhappy. I think that’s how this goes, G.” He shrugs, his eyes coming back to her, solemn and still. She thinks a moment longer. “But when you choose to be all stoic lone ranger, even if you haven’t said it out loud, I don’t know what to do.”

“Neither do I.” He blinks. She knows what he’s lost.

“Still.” She lifts a shoulder.

“Yeah.” He stands. “Even when I’m an asshole, I love you.” He says. “I want to make that work. For both of us. 

“Where you’re an asshole and I’m…” she teases.

He can’t help smiling. “Also an asshole.”

“Deal.” She sucks in a breath. Why not? “Can we get rid of this house?”

He peers at her as if she’s spoken in another language. “House?”

“We don’t really live here. This isn’t getting better.” She gestures to the room. “You bought it for the wrong reason. I can’t fit here. We…” 

His hand stops her. “Hetty will kill me. 

She latches onto the word ‘will.’ Her mouth curves in a slow smile. “I can probably protect you, love.”

“Just so you know. When she asks, I’m telling her it was you.”

~

The message from Arkady contains complaints about the Russian economy and Anna’s well wishes as a prelude to his travel plan to return to LA for good in two weeks. Its postscript is a comment that he’s had coffee with their mutual friend, who asks after them and sends his warm regards. The email, sent to both G and Nell, arrives midday.

Nell reads with pleasure anticipating Arkady’s return. She’s missed him. They’ve spoken by phone at least once a week, the lingering friendship deepening. He’d mentioned last call that his business in Moscow was coming to a close. Despite his efforts, Arkady hasn’t had much to communicate from G’s father, even in the cryptic references he’s able to make. G remains confused about wanting more or less information and Nell suspects he wants different rather than more or less.

G forwards the message to her with his own comment. ‘joy.’ She wonders if he’s referring to Arkady’s return or his father’s warm regards. Probably both. She’s always impressed by his ability to offer understated sarcasm via print. Eric, reading over her shoulder, huffs amusement. Nell shakes her head. There’s no privacy in the world of spies and hackers. Doubtless, Sam is reading G’s phone over his shoulder, too.

“Mr. Beal, what do we know about those warehouses?” Hetty materializes behind them.

“Mainly moving textiles and clothing from the docks to the trucks.” Eric doesn’t miss a beat with his reply. “These two,” he brings up a closer view of the buildings, “seem to be empty and we can’t track down real owners.”

Nell taps up her own screens. “I’ve gone through two layers of shell corporations. It’s a decent bet that’s what we’re looking for. Marty and Kensi are about ten minutes out.”

Hetty nods. She gives Nell a sheet of paper. “Excellent. Have Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna meet them there.”

Nell glances at the paper in her hand as Eric taps up Callen and Sam. It’s a list of properties in Marina Del Ray and Venice Beach. Of course. She returns her attention to the warehouses in question. She texts G.

‘you told her’

‘this morning’

‘she gave me listings’

‘she was pissed’

‘uh huh’

‘it’s a control thing’

‘I see that’

~

“Hey, Nell?” 

“Mmmm?” 

“Where do you want this?”

Towel in hand, Nell leans backwards from the bathroom sink to look out the door at G. He’s walking through the bedroom toward her with her racket-ball satchel in hand. She narrows her eyes at it. “I’m not sure. Garage?”

He shrugs. “Okay, but the garage is filling up. How about the guestroom closet?” He arrives at her toes and drops a kiss on her nose.

They have an odd collection of things, not enough furniture or housewares, too much gear. They have a gun safe, surf gear, ski gear, and a lot of camping gear in the garage with a commitment to keep space for the Mercedes. The dining room and living room are nearly empty save a drafting table, the recliner, the floor lamp, and piles of books.

“Well, alright.” She says. She has designs on the room for their computer set up, though that could be in the dining room. The delivery of the furnishings they purchased is only two hours away. With that will come their friends to help with moving, putting together, and general house warming.

She glances around their cottage, thinking it hardly needs to be warmed. The two bedroom craftsman tucked into the Marina Del Rey neighborhood steps from the beach couldn’t be cozier.  In the week since they moved in, they’ve made love on every available horizontal and vertical space. Smaller than G’s house, the tiny house cost the greater portion of their combined savings. The freedom that comes with it is worth every penny.

G returns from the guestroom sans bag with the infamous coffee can in hand. “Why’s this in a closet?” He asks, setting it on the bedroom window sill. “Needs to be somewhere we can see it.”

She scowls. “Ugh. It’s ugly.” She moves to pick it up, but is intercepted by an arm around her waist.

“Is not.” He says.

“I agreed to keep that, not display it.” She insists. “Hideous reminder.” She mutters as he scoops her closer.

“Beautiful reminder how much Cheryl loved you and how well you hold on to your things.” He breathes the words into her neck and she stills.

She listens to his voice. Content, but not entirely without regret. She kisses his shoulder. There’s a box on the windowsill holding his tin soldier and another box holding the photographs of him throughout his childhood that were found during an op of all things. The pictures Cheryl kept of Nell are in a small photo album in that same box. He’s put the photo of them together as kids on the box lid in a frame he’s glued there to hold it. She should’ve recognized his love of Russian literature as clear indication of his romantic nature. Though, he blames that on her, too.

She surrenders to his embrace. “Yes. Well. I’m holding on to you.”

“Please, do.” He kisses her. She feels his smile against her lips as he lifts her.

  

**Author's Note:**

> I pretty much live for comments and kudos.


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